by Lee Clinton
‘Poor girl,’ interjected one of the women in the crowd.
‘The doc is going to check on her and she will stay with my family,’ continued Gus.
‘Damn Indians,’ came another yell. ‘That’s why she is in fright.’
These sentiments stirred the crowd as another called, ‘Cheyenne, that’s who,’ and heads nodded vigorously. ‘Sooner they are all killed off the better.’
It was getting ugly.
‘Settle down,’ yelled Gus. ‘We’ll find out exactly what happened from Chrissy, but first we need to give her time to rest. And we need to thank the Lord for her deliverance.’
Enough heads nodded for Gus to see that the message was getting through to some, and that should have given him a little confidence. But he felt uneasy. Was it his dyspepsia returning or was it a deeper concern? Had they brought back the soul of Chrissy Mayfield or just her empty body?
CHAPTER 13
PECULIAR
Agreement
Gus had been home for a good hour before the door to the bedroom opened and the doctor and Martha appeared. Concern was etched on their faces.
Gus waited, not asking, but preferring to be offered an explanation.
Doc Larkin moved away from the closed door a little and in a low tone, said, ‘She’s not been touched, so we should be merciful for that. However—’
Martha cut in quickly to excuse herself, so that she could draw a bath for Chrissy.
‘Yes, of course,’ said the doc.
‘However?’ asked Gus.
‘However, she seems to be in some kind of malaise. To be expected in a way. A month out there, on her own, yet surprisingly her physical condition isn’t too bad. Youth helps of course. She has lost some weight but not as much as I would have expected.’
‘Did she talk?’ asked Gus.
‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘Not a word. Did she say anything to you?’
Gus shook his head, ‘No, not a word.’
‘We just need to give her time. It is a wonderful healer, time.’
Gus felt a little annoyed that that was the best medical advice on offer. ‘Do you have any other thoughts?’ he asked.
‘I think she is still suffering the effects of losing her family. I think she may have observed some shocking happenings.’
‘That I don’t doubt,’ said Gus, ‘but will she be able to identify who attacked and killed her family? If it was Cheyenne?’
‘If it were Cheyenne,’ said the doc grimly, ‘they would have had their way with her. And she would have had to escape, and I don’t think that happened. Especially if it were renegades. Regarding her physical condition, however—’ Doc Larkin paused as Martha came back into the room. ‘That is a surprise. She must have scavenged food from somewhere. But where?’
Gus had asked himself the same question, as it was hard to believe that anyone could have survived for that length of time without showing severe signs of malnourishment. After much thought on the ride back to Laramie, he could only come to one conclusion, which he now decided to pass on to the doctor. ‘I think she was getting provisions from our camp. We found her just close by, within daily walking distance.’
Doubt showed on the doctor’s face. ‘If that was the case, then why didn’t she make herself known to her searchers?’
‘Because she didn’t go into the camp.’
The doctor now looked confused. ‘Then who did?’
Right at that moment Gus felt reluctant to say, but he had no choice, no matter how foolish it sounded. He had to tell them both what he had observed. ‘I think a family of coyotes may have taken food from the camp for her.’
‘What?’ said Doc Larkin in amazement.
‘The camp was at the bottom of a ravine. Further up was home to quite a few coyotes. You could hear them, close by, calling of a night. And on occasion, they got into the camp and stole from the provisions. The boys christened the ravines Coyote Canyon.’
‘Coyotes did come into the camp,’ agreed Martha. ‘Clem Crenshaw told me that he’d seen them stealing food in broad daylight. At first, I just thought he was joshing, to make a little fun and cheer me up. But it was true. I had to deliver more dried meat, which he had to hang from a tree.’
‘And you’re saying coyotes took food and fed it to a fourteen-year-old girl?’
Gus nodded, ‘It’s the only conclusion I can come to.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Doc Larkin.
‘Then you better take a seat, Doc, because I’ve got something else to tell you.’
When Gus finished his story, explaining in detail his observations from the ridge and watching Chrissy closely surrounded by coyotes, the doctor said in astonishment, ‘I have never heard of such a thing in my life.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Gus, ‘because I was hoping you could offer an explanation.’
‘Why me?’ asked the doctor.
‘You’re an educated man.’
‘Don’t get education mixed up with knowledge,’ said the doctor, ‘it’s a dangerous assumption.’
‘Maybe the coyotes saw an innocent young girl in need and they took her into their family, to protect her. After all, in Luke 16, didn’t the dogs lick the sores of Lazarus when he was sick and in pain,’ suggested Martha.
It did sound a bit far-fetched, but in defence of his wife, Gus added, ‘I’ve seen young Chrissy around animals and she has a way. That Mayfield mule was ornery to his back teeth. He’d bitten Abe, yet he’d eat from Chrissy’s hand.’ Then he added, ‘It was never something I was prepared to try. He was mean.’
‘Well,’ said Doc Larkin, ‘this world is full of incredible things, so why not this one?’
Martha nodded.
Gus wasn’t sure. It did offer a kind of answer, or maybe it was just one of those incredible things. An unexplained astonishment.
‘All the same,’ said the doctor. ‘I think it best we keep this to ourselves. We don’t want people to get the wrong idea. Could sound a bit peculiar.’
Both Martha and Gus nodded in agreement. It was definitely peculiar.
CHAPTER 14
BOX OF BULLETS
Union Metallic Cartridge Company
People have a way of forgetting and maybe that’s for the better. A family had been brutally killed and their home burnt to the ground, yet a child had somehow escaped and survived. It was a miracle, something to rejoice over and give praise to the Lord, said those devout Christians of whom there were many in Laramie. That Chrissy could not, or would not speak, added to the belief that she had been taken by savages and scared close to death. That she had not been physically touched during this ordeal was also a source of discussion, albeit in whispers. Some were sceptical, even when Doc Larkin made it public knowledge that Chrissy’s virtue remained unharmed. Others responded by saying it was the hand of God protecting the innocent. But regardless of all the gossip and chatter, not once did the subject of coyotes ever get a mention. Doc Larkin, Gus, Martha and Henry said nothing, and why would they, when the occurrence of such an event was beyond comprehension?
Gus did take the opportunity early in the piece to talk to Chrissy, quietly, while sitting on the front porch. They were on their own and the sunlight was warm to the skin against the early chill. He didn’t ask directly what she had seen that night. He just said that when she was ready to talk about it, he was ready to listen.
Chrissy just looked ahead, her voice silent and her face passive. It was as if she had withdrawn deep inside herself, so deep in fact, that she was no longer able to find her way out.
Henry too, had gone quiet and at times became lost in his own thoughts. He was protective of Chrissy, much like a big brother, and in turn she became close to him, often taking his hand as they sat side by side on the porch swing. Martha saw it as a bond of shared grieving that just had to take its course.
Gus returned to his duties and routines, but things were never as they had been for the Ward family. It was as if reason and joy had been sucke
d from their lives, never to return, and while his dyspepsia settled, it never really went away. His nights were often restless and when he did fall asleep he would have wild and vivid dreams of hooded men with flaming torches ransacking the Mayfield homestead. Each time he’d chase after them, but just as he was about to pull the hood from a perpetrator’s head, he would wake with a start.
Martha was the one who seemed to cope the best. She filled every minute of every hour with work, and she did the same for Chrissy. Together they were like mother and daughter as Martha coached her in cooking, cleaning, washing, stitching, and every other household chore. Chrissy responded and participated willingly, yet, never a word was said in response. This was no deterrence to Martha, who chatted away providing both direction and encouragement.
Martha thought it best that Chrissy stay close to home and it was a wise decision. To most in town she was a curio and referred to as ‘the Mayfield girl’. When she accompanied them to church she was stared at so intensely that Martha even considered that they stop going. It took words from the bible by Reverend Brown to convert her from such a thought, along with reserved seats to the rear near the christening font.
Henry did, however, take her out horse riding and it was clear that Chrissy had lost none of her skills. She rode with confidence and at times daring, riding both fast and hard. What also impressed Gus was the response of her mount. There was an unexplained affinity there, as if her horse was seeking not only to please her, but also to protect her. When Chrissy dismounted it placed itself close and twisted its head as if to keep an eye on her. It was odd, thought Gus, as he had ridden this same mount often and found it unresponsive, even a little ill-disposed. In hindsight of course, maybe it wasn’t as odd as belonging to a pack of coyotes.
About a month later, Gus was out west and returning to Laramie when he picked up the road about a mile from the Mayfield property. Why he decided to go back and take another look, he couldn’t say.
Nothing had changed. The ruins remained desolate and untouched. He walked his horse over to the home trough, dismounted and pulled on the pump to add to the water. As the horse drank he looked around to where he had seen Chrissy’s footprints, then up towards the stockyard that was now empty. As he turned back, he glanced at the ground and there in a small pile were six spent cartridges. He squatted to take a close look before picking one up. It was clear that they had been ejected from a revolver to fall at the firer’s feet. He turned an empty case over in his hand. It was devoid of any markings but he knew the calibre. It was .44. The only distinguishing feature was the centre-fired cap as opposed to a normal rim-fired pistol cartridge. These new centre-fired rounds were becoming popular, especially for Colts that had been converted over from cap-and-ball ammunition. He examined each shell before putting the six of them in his top pocket.
Gus looked again towards the stockyard, the direction of Chrissy’s footprint on that day he had seen it clearly by the trough. How had he missed finding these spent shells? Or were they recently discarded and left behind? He walked over to the fence, and there, just by a post, was the mark where a shot had split open the top rail. It was not recent, at least a month old. Was it a shot fired at Chrissy as she made her escape? Had all six shots been fired at her before the pistol was reloaded? It would seem so, concluded Gus.
The following day he strolled over to the general store and showed one of the spent cartridges to Ben Edmonds. ‘Can you identify this?’ he asked.
Ben took a close look. ‘We sell similar,’ he said. ‘If it’s UMC it could be one of ours.’ Ben went to the shelves directly behind him and returned with a box of ammunition. The orange cover proclaimed Union Metallic Cartridge Company (UMC) Fifty Central Fire .44 Calibre Ammunition and below that it said, For the new Colt Army Revolver.
‘Selling much?’ asked Gus.
‘They’re getting popular. Good quality cases, can be reloaded.’ Ben picked up the cartridge and ran his thumbnail over the centre cap. ‘This one hasn’t been reloaded. Fired from new. Where did you find it?’
Gus didn’t want to say, so he just said, ‘Found it yesterday. It was unfamiliar, so I thought I’d check.’ He could tell immediately that Ben knew he had side-stepped his question.
Ben didn’t press, he just said, ‘I’ll pay attention to who comes in for some of these, and I’ll let you know.’
Gus half smiled, ‘I’d appreciate that.’
CHAPTER 15
A SHOOTING
The Stock Agent
‘A shooting, down by The Red Blood, better come quick.’ Deputy Joel Ferber was a little out of breath from hurrying back to the office to get Gus.
‘Ivan there?’ asked Gus as he grabbed his rig.
Joel confirmed he was with a quick nod as he sucked in a deep breath.
‘Do we know who?’
‘No.’
‘Dead?’ asked Gus as he tightened his gun belt.
Joel nodded again. ‘Shot to the head.’
Gus pulled the buckle tight. ‘Front or back?’
‘Side. Left side. Above the ear.’
Gus took the office key from the rack and lifted his hat from the peg beside the door. ‘Any witnesses?’ he asked.
‘None we’ve found. Plenty heard the shot. It was two cowpokes from the cattle yards who found him first.’
It took less than ten minutes for Ivan and Gus to stride out the half-mile to The Red Blood Saloon. A throng of sightseers were crowded around the street end of a narrow strip of land between the saloon and a dry goods store. Joel led the way, calling for a clear path as Gus followed. The land was used as a service lane for both the store and the saloon. A beer wagon was parked near the entrance, taking up most of the space. The horses had been unhooked and the tray was loaded with half a dozen barrels. Gus rapped one as he passed. It was empty.
Directly behind the wagon was the body, crumpled on the ground, half on its side, feet towards Gus, while one arm, the left, reached back with an empty hand. Deputy Ivan Davies was standing just a foot or two further on, closest to the head. He acknowledged their arrival.
‘Familiar at all?’ asked Gus.
‘No,’ said Ivan, ‘not to me.’
Gus squatted and put his fingers to the neck. The skin was warm but there was no pulse. He lifted the head slightly to get a better view of the face, revealing a dark stain where the blood had soaked into the dirt. The dead man was freshly shaved and his moustache trimmed. He looked to be in his twenties. Gus lifted the upper lip and the teeth were all there and in good order. The clothing was neat and clean, except for where the body had fallen to the ground. Gus reached over and picked up the left hand. It was soft, the nails clean and trimmed. He looked down the length of the body to where the oak-tanned boots were clean and waxed. He stood, thought for a second before saying, ‘Joel, get Hyrum, then let Doc Larkin know. Ivan, empty all of his pockets. Make sure you get everything.’
Both deputies acknowledged their instructions as Gus walked back to the crowd. All their eyes engaged him with interest. ‘Anyone see what happened?’
No one responded.
‘Where are the men who discovered the body?’ he asked.
Two stepped forward together.
‘Don’t go anywhere. I need to speak to you about what you heard and found.’
Both said, ‘Yes, Sheriff,’ together.
‘Anyone know this man?’
No one owned up if they did.
‘Anybody see him earlier on? On the street. In a store. Talking to anyone?’
No response.
‘If you become aware of anything that you think may help in identifying this man or the person or persons who did this, come and see me or one of the deputies.’
A sea of heads nodded.
Next, Gus motioned to the two men from the cattle yard who had found the body to step away from the crowd so he could talk to them. They had been less than fifty yards away when they heard the shot and went to investigate. They found the man where he had f
allen, bleeding heavily from the wound to the head. From all visible signs, he was dead.
‘He didn’t say a word, then?’ asked Gus.
The cowpokes confirmed that he didn’t.
‘See anyone close by? Running off?’
No, they hadn’t.
Gus took their names and details of where they could be found before shaking the hand of each man. ‘If you think of anything else, let me know.’
Gus returned to the body and began to examine the contents from the dead man’s pockets that Ivan had retrieved. His name was Davitt Limborg. It said so on his Sons of Temperance card where he had pledged to abstain from the evil of alcohol for life, some four years earlier on the first of November 1866. Gus wondered if he had lapsed and was looking for a drink. If he was, he’d lapsed badly, as it was still early in the day. Other items included a nickel-plated pocket watch made in Switzerland, a cloth pocket purse containing five dollars in change, a return rail ticket back to Cheyenne, a handkerchief, and a small notebook with a pencil that slotted into the spine. On the leather cover were the initials CLA. Inside were printed blue-lined columns with letters and numbers. None of which meant anything to Gus. He flicked through the pages and only about a quarter of the book had been used. He looked at the cover again and guessed that the C stood for Cheyenne, but had no idea what the letters L A stood for. He waited with the body until the undertaker arrived. Before leaving, he reminded Ivan to pace out the distances from the end of each corner of the saloon and to draw up a diagram in his field notebook to accurately place the location of the body. He then went off to find and advise Mayor O’Brien and Judge Morgan.
He couldn’t find either, but left word with each clerk to pass on the time of his calling, with instructions that there had been a shooting resulting in death, and that he would return later.
From there, Gus went to the telegraph office and sent the following telegram to Sheriff Laird at Cheyenne – Shooting in Laramie this day, Davitt Limborg killed with wound to head, identified by temperance card, believed to be a citizen of Cheyenne. If known, please advise kin and inform me of reason for being in Laramie. Sheriff August Ward.