Blood at Bear Lake

by Gary Franklin

  The insult brought no reaction from the thoroughly terrified trader.

  47

  “HE S-S-SAID HIS name was Holt. Rance Holt. Said he was f-from Nevada. Worked for a man named Peabody. Said he w-was tracking a murderer. Said there’s a bounty. The descrip . . .” Tuttle paused to take a deep breath and swallow. “The description fit you to a T. Wanted you. And a woman, too. Handsome woman, he said. Red hair. Traveling with you. Said you was riding a spotted horse. I didn’t . . . didn’t see a woman nor your horse, but I knew right off it was you he wanted.

  “I asked about you. Couple men told me who you are. They said you can handle . . .” Tuttle stopped and rolled his eyes. He shook his head and tried to swallow back the lump of raw fear in his throat. “Said you could handle yourself. I’m no fighter. That’s why . . . why I hired those men. To do what I couldn’t.”

  “They couldn’t neither, James. That’s why they’re laying dead out there an’ I got their scalps here in my bag.” Joe leaned down closer so that his face loomed over Tuttle’s from only a scant few inches away. “It’s why I figure t’ put your useless scalp in here, too. Now tell me about this sonuvabitch Holt. Where is he now?”

  “I don’t . . . south. Don’t do that. Please.” Tuttle’s voice rose into a high-pitched yelp when he felt the tip of Joe’s knife lightly tickle his rib cage. One thrust there and he would be a dead man. “Please.”

  “Where is Holt, James?”

  “Julesburg. Maybe Julesburg. Or Denver City.”

  “I heard of Julesburg, but where is Denver City?”

  “It used to be called Cherry Creek.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “He said . . . he said if I k-k . . . got you, I could find him in Manitou, wherever that is.”

  “I know Manitou,” Joe told him. “What else?”

  “He said . . . he said . . . oh, God, do I have to tell you this?”

  “Yeah. You do.” Joe nudged the man with the bowie again and Tuttle tried to flinch away. Joe yanked him back and pressed him back against the counter in his store. The place smelled of wood smoke and fur . . . and fear. Tuttle was sweating even though the inside of the trading post was chilly at this hour. “What did Holt tell you t’ do, James?”

  “He said I was to . . . to . . . oh, Jesus!”

  “Tell me, James.” Joe’s voice fell to little more than a whisper, but it had a sharper edge to it than his bowie did. It carried the sure promise of death, slow and agonizing death. “Tell me.”

  “He said I should . . . I should cut . . . cut the head . . . off the man who came here . . . and p-pack it in alcohol . . . in a keg . . . and send it to him at . . . at Manitou. And he could come p-p-pay me f-for . . . p-pay me two thousand dollars re . . . reward.”

  “Uh-huh. And how much did he give you to bind the deal, James?”

  “He didn’t . . .” Tuttle looked into Joe’s face and saw death looking back at him there. “Five hundred dollars. That’s what . . . I gave some of it to those fellows from Indiana. I promised to give them more when . . . you know.”

  “Yeah. I know. Indiana?”

  “Someplace like that. They said they were afraid they were going to be conscripted into Mr. Lincoln’s army. They didn’t want to go. That’s why they . . .” The trader shrugged. “They were going to California.”

  “They should’ve kept going,” Joe said. “You should’ve gone with them. Exactly where in Manitou were you t’ send this keg of alcohol, James?”

  “I have it written down so I wouldn’t forget. I . . . I can get it for you. If you, um . . .” He motioned with his hand, asking Joe to back away and let him move away from the counter.

  “Sure. Go ahead an’ get it.” Joe stepped back a pace. Then another.

  Tuttle bobbed his head and wiped the cold sweat out of his eyes. The man went behind his store counter and bent low.

  When he stood upright again, he had a pistol in his hand. An old-fashioned but very effective—and very deadly—horse pistol. The bore looked big enough to walk into and hardly have to bend over.

  It was pointed straight at Joe Moss’s chest.

  48

  “YOU STUPID SONUVABITCH,” Joe said with a snort of amusement. “If you’re gonna kill a man, you should at least ought t’ cock your damn pistol.”

  Tuttle’s already pasty face turned white as a sheet of paper, and he looked down at his big pistol.

  A moment later, shock turning to anger, he looked up again. “Damn you,” he snapped, “this gun already is coc—”

  Realization came a split second too late. Joe’s bowie was already flashing through the air. The distance between the two men was not quite far enough to allow the rotation of the knife to end up point-first in Tuttle’s flesh. Instead, the knife struck with the blade flat against the man’s chest.

  The bowie did no real damage, but it startled Tuttle into flinching. His hand clenched reflexively around the butt of the old dragoon horse pistol. The gun went off, its heavy lead ball flying somewhere into the eaves of the trading post.

  Smoke from the discharge of so much gunpowder left the air in the low-ceilinged trading post reeking of sulphur, and for several long moments obscured vision in that end of the building.

  When the smoke began to dissipate, Joe was behind the counter, kneeling on James Tuttle’s chest. Joe had retrieved the bowie and was holding it to the man’s throat.

  “Don’t . . . don’t . . . please don’t hurt me,” Tuttle pleaded.

  “James, you are fixin’ to find out just how much pain a man can live through. An’ then I’m gonna let you die.”

  “No, I . . . I’ll tell you . . . everything. Do you hear me, Moss? I can help you. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  A wicked imitation of a grin thinned Joe’s lips, and very, very softly he said, “Oh, James, m’lad, I know you’ll tell me everything I want t’ know. There ain’t a doubt in the world ’bout that, old son.”

  Joe snorted. His grin grew even wider. “No, sir,” he said as he slid the tip of the bowie into James Tuttle’s left nostril, “not a doubt in this whole damn world.”

  It was the better part of an hour later when Joe emerged from the trading post. A lovely crimson and purple dawn was breaking to the east. The air was crisp and cold, and Joe was feeling pretty good under the circumstances. He still did not know where Fiona was. But he knew where to find Ransom Holt.

  He was wearing buckskins again, taken from the trading post stock. His “civilian” clothes were ruined, soaked in blood. He had left them in a sodden pile in a corner of the place. Tuttle he had left in a different sort of pile.

  The man had died badly, screaming into an empty nail keg that Joe had slipped over his head to keep his noise from rousing others in the sleeping outpost.

  But before he died, he told everything he knew to Joe. Hell, Joe thought, Tuttle probably told him some things the miserable sonuvabitch did not know, too. Made-up things that he desperately hoped would make Joe hurry up and kill him, anything to make the pain stop.

  The lies could be sorted out later, Joe figured. The one true fact that he really needed was the information about where to find Holt.

  Stopping Holt was the key to making Fiona safe.

  Stopping Holt. And then ending this blood feud with whatever Peabodys were left back in Nevada.

  Once he’d reached Fort Laramie and had some time to think about his and Fiona’s situation instead of concentrating on scurrying about searching for her, Joe realized that if they so desired, the Peabodys could afford to send out a hundred more just like Ransom Holt.

  Killing Holt would solve his and Fiona’s immediate problem. But it would take killing the source of that trouble to really give them any peace.

  One thing he knew for certain. He had to protect Fiona and little Jessica. Protecting them was even more important than reuniting with them, and if he had to choose between knowing they were safe and happy but apart from him, and having them close but being in dan
ger—there was no question what he would unhesitatingly choose. Fiona’s and Jessica’s safety was far more important than his own.

  Joe returned to the corral where his animals were penned. He gave a soft, shrill whistle, and the huge Shire raised its head and whinnied in recognition. The mule, on the other hand, slipped quietly around behind the Shire as if hoping no one would notice it there.

  Joe led them outside the corral and tied them to a fence rail, then saddled the patient black horse. When he was done with that, he began the much more complicated task of building a pack for the mule to carry.

  At one point when he was nearly ready to ride out from Laramie, he paused and realized with something of a shock that he had been whistling again. But a tune this time. He could not remember what the tune was called, nor could he think of the words, but he remembered the rhythm of it and that was enough.

  He had not felt like whistling tunes since . . . since Fiona was with him.

  Joe untied his animals, picked up his Henry rifle, and climbed onto the big Shire.

  “Come along, boys,” he said softly. “We got us some ground t’ cover.”

  49

  CHERRY CREEK USED to be a pretty decent little run of water. Not worth a damn for beaver, though. Joe knew. He had tried trapping it years ago. Hadn’t taken any plews worth spit. Then some damned fool came along and found a little gold, and the rush had been on. Cherry Creek, Georgetown, there was a whole string of brand-new gold camps growing like mushrooms along the headwaters of the South Platte and its many tributaries.

  Joe scowled. Some of those creeks provided a fair catch of beaver. Now they were being ruined. And yes, he knew good and well—too damned well—that beaver wasn’t worth much these days. Still and all, he hated to see good country ruined with the presence of pork eaters who did not know how to make a trap set and had never seen a hostile Indian. Assholes! Joe had had a bellyful of them.

  On the other hand, he thought, his expression lightening, wherever there were gold miners there was whiskey. And he had not gotten all the whiskey he wanted back at Fort Laramie.

  Denver City, as they were calling it now, smelled of smoke from all the supper fires that were burning in all those buildings. Joe shook his head. There must have been five thousand people here now. Maybe more.

  It took him a moment to realize what was wrong about the scents in the air. Coal. It was coal smoke he was smelling, not wood. Somebody must have started digging coal around here; they surely could not haul it all the way out from back East. The country was coming to ruination for certain sure if women were here cooking with coal.

  That stink was not enough to keep him out of the first saloon he came to.

  He had to ride two more blocks to find a livery stable that was clean and had a hostler who looked trustworthy.

  “Evenin’, friend,” Joe said as he dismounted and led his animals into the barn alleyway.

  “Evenin’ your own self,” the young man said, rising off the rat-proof grain bunk where he had been perched. “What can I do for you?”

  “I got a powerful thirst on me, son, and I want t’ make sure my critters are safe an’ tended to while I’m about the business o’ satisfying that thirst.”

  “I can assure you they would be safe here. Your trappings, too, if you like. Put the animals in the second stall on that side there. You can pile your gear inside the tack room there. I sleep in there and won’t nobody come in and bother your things during the night.”

  Joe nodded and reached into his possibles pouch. “You want I should pay you now?” He grinned and added, “Just in case there’s none o’ this left by the time I get back?”

  The young hostler laughed. “I know what you mean. Sure. I charge fifty cents per night per animal.” He looked at the huge Shire and said, “Maybe I should raise my rate for that one, though.”

  “What you think is fair,” Joe said.

  “No, no, I won’t be asking extra for him. Why, I count it a privilege to have a fine animal like that staying in my place. He’s a Shire, isn’t he?”

  “So said the man I bought him off of.”

  “Did he come all the way from England, then?”

  Joe could only shrug. “The man didn’t say.”

  “My, my, he is a beauty. Look at those feet. He must take five pounds of iron in every shoe. How are his shoes, by the way?”

  “Fair. Big as he is, he wears on them fast.”

  “Would you like me to shoe him while you’re here? I’d love a chance to work on something like him.”

  “How much?” It crossed Joe’s mind that this young man might be making a show of fairness with one hand so he could inflate his prices with the other.

  “Twenty-five cents a foot,” the young fellow said. That price was more than fair, it was generous. Twice that would have been fair, and Joe was more or less expecting a dollar a hoof or something equally outlandish.

  Joe pulled out some cash. “I’ll pay you to shoe both animals, then, and board them two nights.”

  The hostler looked down at the currency in Joe’s hand and quickly shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

  “I’m sorry, friend, but I don’t take paper money. Hard money only.”

  “What the hell is that about?”

  “Friend, it’s obvious that you’re new here. You might say that Denver is a border town. There are Unionists to the north of us and Confederates to the south. Right here we have both. Try to spend paper money, and you’re apt to offend by giving Union paper to a Reb or offering Con-fed’rate money to a Yank. Feelings on the subject tend to run hot. Most merchants avoid conflict by dealing in hard money only, gold and silver being sound regardless of who minted the coins.”

  Joe shook his head. “Where I been, son, I tend t’ forget there is such a thing as a war back East. I got a little hard money on me, but not much. Is there anyplace I can exchange paper for coin?”

  “The banks will take Union currency and exchange it almost straight up. Some of the hotels will let you buy coin from them, but you have to pay a premium, a little if you’re holding Yankee money but a lot if your paper is Confederate.”

  Joe dug deeper into his pouch and came up with a ten-dollar eagle. Handing it to the hostler, he said, “This will keep my boys for a few days. Now please point me to one o’ them hotels that will change soft money for hard.”

  The young fellow walked to the front of his barn, and only then did Joe see that he was crippled, his right leg twisted and shorter than the left. “Down there on the left. The Weymouth, it’s called. I’ve never stayed there myself, but I’ve heard the rooms are cleaner than most.”

  “All right. Thanks a lot.” Joe carried his gear into the tack room and piled everything in a corner where it should be out of the way, then picked up his bedroll—more out of habit than necessity—and headed down the street to the Weymouth Hotel.

  He was looking forward to a bath and a real bed. And even more to a few mugs of whiskey.

  Another day or maybe two should take him to Manitou, he calculated, and a showdown with Ransom Holt.

  50

  “I NEED A ROOM for a night or two an’ I don’t want to share the bed,” he told the graybeard at the Weymouth’s desk.

  “Huh. I wisht we had enough business to be packing them in two or three to the bed. We used to, you know, back when we first opened. Not no more, though. It’s two dollars a night. In advance.” He pushed a canvas-bound ledger at Joe. “Make your mark here.”

  Joe chose a pen with a narrow nib and dipped it in the inkwell, then signed his name. He still experienced a flush of pride and pleasure whenever he did that. He could by damn read now and write, too. Not just everybody could do that.

  “Room Three. Top of the stairs, Mister, uh”—the old fellow turned the ledger around and peered at the signature— “Mr. Moss.”

  “Is there a key?”

  “Nope. The locks was cheap pieces of shit to begin with and they’
re every one busted now. If you have any valuables, you can leave them with me. I got a safe in my room there if you want to use it.”

  Joe shook his head. Anything of any value was over at the livery. His bedroll included his camp bed and a change of clean socks and underwear and that was about it. “No need, thanks. How ’bout a bath?”

  “Just around the corner there’s a barbershop that has a tub.”

  Joe nodded and felt his face and the back of his head. He hadn’t taken time for a haircut in a spell. It might make a nice change to let someone else cut it. A trim off the beard, too, while he was at it. He smiled and thanked the man, then paid the fellow five dollars in U.S. currency.

  “One night?”

  “Could be two. You can give me my change when I leave.”

  “That’s fair,” the clerk said.

  Joe tramped up the stairs and looked around Room Three. Not that there was much to see. There was a rope-sprung bed with a thin mattress and two aged blankets. A series of pegs on one wall for hanging clothes. And that was about it.

  The floorboards squeaked when he walked across them. Joe liked that. It meant no one could approach in the night without alerting him.

  He dropped his bedroll on the foot of the bed and immediately turned back around and left, the Henry still trailing from his hand. He did not intend to leave the repeater unattended. There was no sign of the desk clerk when he went downstairs. Joe went outside and turned in the direction the man had pointed for that barbershop. A bath was going to feel good.