Blood at Bear Lake

by Gary Franklin

  Lordy, but this country did bring back memories.

  Joe always got along well with the Utes—something not just everyone could say—and had hunted with them a number of times in the past.

  He called to mind one wonderful winter spent in South Park, living with a fat Ute girl who surely did know how to drain a man’s seed. The beaver were prime and the elk tasty, and what more could a man ask than that?

  If he could do something like that with Fiona, find a high mountain hideaway and come down only once a year to swap hides for salt, tobacco, and gunpowder . . . Joe shook himself out of his what-if reverie. He hadn’t come here to daydream, dammit.

  He was here to kill a man.

  Colorado City, that was the name he saw on a couple of the businesses he rode past on his way through the young town. Not that there was so very much to be called a town. Just a few structures, most of them hastily constructed and with canvas for roofs.

  There were a few who built with brick and with stone, though, so somebody hereabouts intended to stay.

  Joe rode on past. When he left Colorado City, he reined the Shire off the road into a small grove of aspen. The big horse was played out. Its legs were trembling and its coat quivered when he touched it.

  “It’s all right, little fella. You’ve done everything I asked of you. You’ve earned yourself a rest.”

  Joe took the reins in hand and led his animals the last mile to Manitou.

  The little town was in nearly perpetual shadow, set as it was in a wide cleft that cut into the mountains. Ute Pass ran west from Manitou, the mountains there dominated by the ever-white cap atop the mountain they were now calling Pikes Peak in honor of old Zebulon. Ute Pass entered the mountains just to the north of the peak.

  Joe’s concentration right now, though, was on Manitou. And the man Ransom Holt who’d put a price on his head and on Fiona’s.

  It was well past daybreak now, getting on toward the middle of the morning, and he had pushed the Shire hard since just past sundown yesterday. The horse deserved to be taken care of before Joe was.

  He spotted a stable on his right. A sign offered to board horses for ten cents a day. It was a good price, but then wild grass hay should be easily come by here. Just take a mower and a rake out onto the plains, and a man could cut all the hay he wanted with no one to tell him nay.

  “I got me some tired animals here, friend,” Joe told the hostler who came to greet him. “They need hay and a good rubdown. Water after they’ve cooled off. Can you do those things for me? I’m willin’ to pay.”

  The hostler, a middle-aged man who was badly in need of a shave and a haircut, scratched his chin and nodded. “If you say you’ll pay extra.”

  “I say it,” Joe affirmed.

  “Going to be here long?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Joe told him. Maybe forever, he thought, but he did not say that.

  “Throw your things over there until you decide,” the hostler said. “I’ll take good care of these tired boys.”

  Joe thanked the man and shucked the Henry from his scabbard before leaving the animals in the care of the hostler.

  Ransom Holt was supposed to be at a hotel called the Simcox House. Joe intended to find the man and to shoot the son of a bitch on sight just as sure as he would shoot down a hydrophobic dog. No questions; no hesitation.

  55

  THERE WERE NO buildings in Manitou that could be considered to be “old,” but the Simcox House was closer to it than most. Why, it had been in place long enough for the paint on the windowsills to peel. Joe mounted the steps to the front porch and looked behind him.

  The hotel was on a hillside, looking down on the little town that snaked along the course of the creek that descended from the Front Range mountains. Joe could see pretty much the whole of the town. But what he truly wanted to see was Ransom Holt. Or his own beloved Fiona.

  With a grunt of determination, Joe Moss squared his shoulders, placed the Henry in the crook of his left arm, and entered the Simcox House.

  The lobby was dark, filled with heavy furniture and stuffed elk heads. Cuspidors were placed conveniently among the chairs, and there were ashtrays provided for the cigar smokers. If the place was busy, it did not show it. One gentleman sat in a deep upholstered armchair with a newspaper spread in his lap, and there was a young man with slicked-down hair and sleeve garters fiddling with sheaves of papers at a small desk toward the rear of the lobby.

  “May I help you?” the youngster with the sleeve garters asked.

  Joe strode across the Oriental rugs on the lobby floor and grounded the butt of his Henry. “Ayuh. I’m lookin’ for a fella that I’m told should be here. Man name of Holt. Ransom Holt.”

  The young clerk smiled. “Mr. Holt. Yes, we’ve had the privilege of his business. But he isn’t here any longer.”

  “Not here?” Joe blurted. “I don’t understand.”

  “You missed him by just two days,” the clerk said. “He left the day before yesterday.”

  “Where’d he go, man? This is real important.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know where he went when he left here. I only know he left in something of a hurry. He left most of his things. Said he would be back for them later or send for them if he couldn’t return.”

  “An’ you don’t know where he’s gone nor when he might be back?” Joe asked.

  The young fellow shook his head. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

  “Damn,” Joe muttered, mostly to himself. Then, in a louder voice, he asked, “You say Mr. Holt was in a hurry when he left. Do you know what caused him to rush away like that?”

  “No, of course not. We don’t interfere in our guests’ lives.”

  Joe took a twenty-dollar bill out of his pouch and laid it on the clerk’s desk. The young man looked up, clearly startled. His eyes darted left and right. Then the twenty disappeared.

  He cleared his throat and rather nervously glanced around the room again before he spoke. “All I know, and I mean it’s all I know, is that Mr. Holt received a telegraphic message. The boy delivered it when Mr. Holt was at breakfast. He left his table immediately, went upstairs, and came back down a few minutes later carrying a hand valise.”

  “Two days. Damn.” Joe turned to leave, then thought of something else that might be of value. He turned back to the clerk. “Does Holt keep his own horse or does he use public transportation?”

  “The gentleman went from here to the stage depot. I did notice that much.”

  Joe pursed his lips and thought for a moment, then said, “All right, kid, thanks. You been a big help.”

  He turned and headed toward the door. Stopped. Turned back again. “Where could I find the telegraph office hereabouts?”

  “Just down the street, sir. Next door to the bank. You can’t miss it.”

  Joe smiled and thanked him again, then hurried on his way.

  Two days gone. Damn that son of a bitch!

  56

  “EXCUSE ME, SIR,” Joe said. “I need some information.” The telegrapher, a young fellow with blond hair falling over his eyes, looked up and smiled a welcome. “Yes, of course. What do you need to know?”

  “Two days ago, a fella over at the Simcox House received a message. I need t’ know where it came from an’ what it said.”

  “Oh, sir, I am sure you understand that I cannot possibly give you that information.” The smile returned. “It would be against all the rules. Really.”

  “Friend, this is awful important t’ me. I really got t’ know. Really.” Joe was not smiling.

  “But our rules prohibit it.”

  “Prohibit,” Joe repeated. “That means no, don’t it?”

  “More or less.”

  “I tell ya what. Maybe this would help.” Joe dipped into his possibles pouch and laid a sheaf of twenty-dollar bills on the counter. He did not bother to count them, but the amount should have been in the neighborhood of a hundred dollars.

  “Oh, sir. I can’t take your money. Believ
e me, I would like to. But I cannot.”

  “I told you it’s important, son. My wife’s life might could depend on it,” Joe said, leaning on the counter. Seriousness and urgency were written plain on his face. “An’ I ain’t just sayin’ that. Her actual life is at stake here.”

  “I appreciate the seriousness, sir, but the rules are very specific. People have the right to expect privacy in their wires, just as in their letters. I simply cannot do it.”

  Joe sighed. “You won’t take that money, son?”

  “No, sir. I will not.”

  Slowly and carefully, Joe picked up the currency, folded and sorted it, then returned it to his possibles pouch. “I sure wisht I could change your mind, sonny.”

  “Sorry. That’s not possible.”

  “Okay. But remember that I tried.”

  Joe turned and walked to the door, but instead of leaving the telegraph office, he pulled the blind down to cover the window, set the CLOSED sign there where it could be seen from outside, and twisted the brass lock.

  “Sir?” the telegrapher sputtered as Joe set his Henry aside and entered the telegrapher’s fenced-off portion of the room. “Sir!” he repeated when the bowie came into Joe’s hand.

  Joe ignored him for the moment. Ripped one of the sleeves from the youngster’s shirt. Wadded the cloth into a ball and shoved it into the young man’s mouth.

  Then Joe leaned down and, still without rushing, calmly said, “What I am gonna do is slice off pieces o’ you till you loosen up an’ tell me what it is that I want t’ know. Now hold still whilst I tie you in place.” A smile flickered briefly across Joe’s leathery face. “It wouldn’t be polite for you t’ wiggle, now would it?”

  The telegrapher frantically snatched the gag from his mouth and, pale and sputtering, said, “You . . . you’re serious!”

  “Aye. I told you. My wife’s life could be at stake here. Given the choice, I’d ruther leave your guts in a pile on this floor than t’ see a hair on her head come to harm. Now shut up. I figure to start carving. I’ll quit when you’re ready t’ tell me what I need t’ know.”

  Joe grabbed the gag away from the fellow and leaned close.

  “No, I . . . I’ll tell you. Whatever you . . . whatever you want.”

  “You took a message for Ransom Holt.”

  “I’m sure I did, but I don’t remember every wire I copy.”

  “Copy. You keep a copy o’ all the messages for your own selves, don’t you?”

  The telegrapher nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yes, sir. We do.”

  “Find it. Show me what it says an’ where it came from. Do it right damned now!”

  The telegrapher practically flew out of his chair to one of several filing cabinets ranked along the wall.

  57

  “IT’S A FUNNY thing, mister, but you’re the second fellow to ask me that question this week.”

  “And what did you tell the first man to ask it?” Joe inquired of the stage line ticket agent.

  “Same thing I’ll tell you. This right here is as far west as the roads run. Not until you get all the way up to the Oregon Trail or south to the Gila Road. From here, the best way across to Utah is to take a coach north to Denver. You change there and connect with another that will carry you east to Julesburg. I can ticket you through that far, but in Julesburg you’ll have to make your own arrangements with the Overland Express Company coach on west to Utah. The place you’re looking for is supposed to be somewhere up around Bear Lake.”

  “How would you know that, mister?”

  “That other fellow, he had me wire back to the operator who originated the message. I asked him and he told me.” The man shrugged. “I hadn’t heard of it until then. Bear Lake, I mean. I’d heard of Utah all right.”

  “Let me get the straight of it. North to Denver. Back east all the way out to Julesburg. Then roll west from there along the Oregon road. Is that right?”

  The ticket agent nodded. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “You’ve been a big help, thanks.”

  Joe left the stage depot and headed for the livery where he had left his Shire and mule.

  The contents of Ransom Holt’s telegraph message kept thundering through his mind, banging on the walls of his brain like a skull-crushing mallet.

  HAVE WOMAN BRING MONEY S/CHARLES COMMA BEAR LAKE

  Have woman. Bring money.

  And Ransom Holt, the son of a bitch, was on his way to deliver it. And to collect Fiona’s dear head.

  If they had harmed her . . .

  Joe put Fiona out of his mind. She would never be out of his heart, but for now he needed to think. He had to find a way to get to Fiona and this Charles person before Holt did.

  Bastard Charles did not even say if he had her alive. Or . . . otherwise.

  Joe could not be thinking about that now. He simply had to believe that she was alive and that he could find her and free her. She had to be.

  At the livery, he entered the stall where the huge Shire was stabled with good hay, grain, and clean water. One look told Joe the big horse would not be traveling anywhere for a good many days. It needed time to recover from the hard use Joe had put it to over the past few days.

  “You can see I’ve tooken good care of ’em,” the hostler said, coming up behind Joe, carrying a scrap of harness leather.

  “Yes, sir, you have, but now I’m needing a fast horse. Better yet, several of them.”

  “I can show you what I have,” the man said. “Follow me back this way.”

  When they got to the corral at the rear of the livery barn, Joe quickly dismissed the nags that were standing there. They looked like they might make decent cart or plow horses, but they were no mountain ponies and were not going to take anyone anywhere in any sort of a hurry.

  “You haven’t had somebody else in here looking for a fast horse in the past couple days, have you?” Joe asked.

  The hostler have him an odd look. “No, I haven’t. Why’d you ask a thing like that?”

  Joe shrugged. “Everywhere I go lately, there’s somebody else been there just ahead of me.”

  He meant it, but the hostler took it for a joke and laughed. “Nothing like that, no, sir.”

  “Shit!” Joe grumbled.

  “If you go back up to the springs, you might could catch some Injuns there. They might have spare horses. Might even have some decent horseflesh among ’em. And you know Injuns. Make them the right price and they’ll sell anything they got. Including their wives or daughters.”

  Joe did not necessarily agree with that assessment, not completely anyway, but the man did have a point. “They still camp in that grove up above the springs?”

  “You know the area, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, you’ll find the Injuns just where you said. Funny how all the different tribes come here, but they don’t fight amongst themselves when they do. Why is that, do you wonder?”

  “It’s because those waters are sacred to the Great Spirit Manitou. It would be an insult to him if they was to hog the spring. Indians are funny that way.”

  “Whacha mean ‘funny’?”

  “I mean they respect their gods more than they hate their enemies. That kind of funny.” He got the impression that the livery man did not really understand what he meant by that, but in truth Joe did not care. The fellow had given him an idea where he might find the horses he needed. That was what mattered.

  “I’ll leave my things here if you don’t mind,” he said. “Might be away for a spell, but I’ll be back sooner or later.”

  “Everything will be here when you come, whenever that is,” the hostler said.

  Joe left a fistful of U.S. currency with him to take care of the Shire and the mule, then headed toward the Indian campground above the sacred springs.

  58

  THERE WAS A small band of Arapaho camping above the sacred spring.

  Joe climbed a pale red gravel slope, then descended into a pine-scented gro
ve where generations of Indians had camped when they made their pilgrimages to the spring.

  Now the Arapaho eyed Joe warily as he approached them, probably suspicious all the more because he came on foot.

  “No Engliss. No Engliss. Go ’way.”

  Joe spoke to them in the universal sign language of the plains. “I am Man Killer. You know me.”

  One of the men, a young man with bulging muscles and a scowl, said, “I am Running Calf. What want you here, Man Killer?”

  “My horse is played out. I have many miles to go. I have money to buy a horse from you, Running Calf. Good horse. Mountain horse. I will pay.”

  “What would we buy with white man’s money?”

  “Tobacco. Much tobacco. Whiskey.”

  “We are not permitted to buy whiskey. The whites here will not sell it to us. You know this, Man Killer.”

  Joe smiled and signed back, “But they will sell to me.”

  Running Calf smiled as well, and Joe figured he had as good as bought his horse now.

  It was not that easy. There were still the painstaking negotiations to complete, and it would have been unwise to try to shortcut the process. As it was, Joe considered himself lucky to get out of there in under two hours.

  He had expected that, but was disappointed that the band would sell him only one horse. The group was not traveling with any mounts to spare, and throughout the negotiations complained that two of them would have to ride double because of being a horse short.

  Joe knew good and well someone would be riding two to a horse no farther than Manitou. They were sure to steal another horse there. Or likely more than one. Not that it would have been polite to mention that.

  On second thought, he realized that the good folks of Manitou were probably safe from horse theft by the Arapaho. The Indians would not want to make themselves unwelcome here lest they all be evicted from the sacred waters.