The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  Dropping the empty copper in his pocket, Buck made his way back to town, stopping in front of the International Saloon. The International was a two-storied frame structure with a balcony that overlooked the main thoroughfare. It sat across the street from the Central Pacific depot and attracted a lot of its clientele from the railroad. Buck had never cared much for the International, not even in the days before he’d met Dulce. The saloon’s scantily clad hostesses had always seemed a little too desperate to him, and its music, produced by an ever-changing orchestra of transients scratching out tunes for meals and drinks, had seemed jarring even on its best nights.

  Mase had been different, though. He’d seemed to crave the noise and hustle of rowdy establishments like the International. He liked to play cards and drink whiskey, to laugh loud and long, and tell stories only the rawest greenhorn would swallow whole. And once or twice a week. Mase would go upstairs with one of the International’s whores, usually paying for the entire night so that he wouldn’t have to get up afterward and go home.

  Although Mase had never claimed a favorite among the dozen or so hookers who worked at the International, Buck had heard from some of the Box K muleskinners that he’d recently become attached to an older prostitute named Sally Hayes, who’d drifted in from San Francisco the preceding fall. In addition to the barkeep, Buck wanted to talk to Sally.

  There must have been close to two hundred men crammed inside the saloon’s big main room that night. The press at the bar reminded Buck of a freshly opened tin of sardines. He recognized a few of the patrons—muleskinners and bullwhackers from other freighting companies, warehouse men and clerks—but the majority were strangers, bound for the northern gold fields—miners, adventurers, speculators in everything from horses to timber. Many of them would buy passage on one of the stagecoaches that started out daily for Idaho and Montana; others would hold over only long enough to procure their own transportation. A few, too broke to afford better, would walk the entire distance, carrying their possessions in backpacks or wheelbarrows.

  At first, Buck was startled to recognize a few Box K teamsters in the crowd. He spotted Joe Perry at the chuck-a-luck cage and Lou Kitledge and Andy LeMay sitting at a table jawing with a couple of Gilmer and Salisbury hostlers. Ray Jones stood at the bar with another Gilmer and Salisbury man, a slim, black jehu—or stagecoach driver—called Hoots.

  Kitledge and LeMay motioned for Buck to join them, but he declined with a curt shake of his head. He found a gap at the bar and wedged in. At this time of the year, with the hordes just starting north after the long winter, the International kept two bartenders working the evening shift.

  Tom Ashley had the near end, and Buck caught his eye.

  “What’ll it be?” Ashley asked, perspiration beading his fore-head.

  “Beer.”

  Ashley drew a full mug and set it in front of Buck, then scooped up the two-bit piece Buck tossed onto the counter. “I heard you had some excitement in here the other night,” Buck said, before the bartender could walk away.

  Ashley grunted in recognition. “I thought I recognized you. You’re Mase Campbell’s pard, the one that’s takin’ over his job.”

  “Buck McCready.”

  “Sure.” A sneer curled Ashley’s lips. “Sparkin’ Kavanaugh’s little gal, too, ain’t cha?”

  Buck’s face went dangerously flat. “Easy, friend. She’s not the kind to be talked about in a place like this.”

  “Aw, I didn’t besmirch your little darlin’s honor,” the barkeep snarled, then stalked off.

  The man on Buck’s right chuckled softly. “Slimy bastard, ain’t he?”

  “Ashley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know him?”

  “Just from buying beers from him.” He put out his hand. “I’m Milo Newton, of Kansas.”

  “Buck McCready.” Buck shook the man’s hand, liking the firmness of the Kansan’s grip, the steady return of his gaze.

  “I heard,” Milo said. “Did Ashley say you were skinning mules for the Box K?”

  “I was Mason Campbell’s ramrod until he was killed a couple of nights ago. They offered me his job this morning.”

  “Tough way to get a promotion/’ Milo said. “I knew Campbell when he was still captaining for Majors, Russell, and Waddell. Not well, but by reputation. I was working at a relay station along the Platte River Road outside of Fort Kearney, just a kid, and Mase … hell, Mase was a legend even then. Was never a train Mason Campbell didn’t get through, never a cargo he lost.” He smiled. “At least that’s what they said.”

  Buck turned for a second look. Milo Newton was an inch or two shorter than he was, but broader through the chest and shoulders. He had wavy brown hair and brown eyes, and sported a mustache that curved down on either side of his mouth. His clothes were trail-worn but reasonably clean, and he carried what looked like a Navy Colt on his left hip, its butt canted forward in a manner even then falling out of vogue. He looked to be about thirty, which would have made him several years older than Buck.

  “That was Mase, all right,” Buck said after a pause. “There aren’t many as good, and none better.”

  “Time’s running out for it, that’s for sure. The damn’ railroads.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to the long hitches, and the fools who drive them.”

  “To the long hitches,” Buck murmured, clinking glasses.

  They talked like old friends for another hour, and Buck learned that Milo’s story was similar to his own. Orphaned at seventeen, Milo had gone to work for the giant freighting firm of Majors, Russell, and Waddell as a roustabout. When that company went out of business in the early 1860s, he’d taken a job skinning mules out of Leavenworth for the Army. Later, he’d hauled between end of track on the Kansas Pacific railroad and various military posts throughout eastern Colorado and New Mexico, until economic depression in the East forced the lay-off of several hundred employees. It was the rumor of good-paying jobs for muleskinners in Utah that had brought him over the mountains.

  “You ought to talk to Jock, down at the Box K, if you’re looking for work,” Buck told him.

  “Jock?” Milo’s brows furrowed. “Kavanaugh’s little.…” He looked up in surprise. “The same Jock Kavanaugh who used to run freight out of Arrow Rock, Missouri?”

  Buck’s smile faded. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Before I was born,” Milo acknowledged. “Still.…”

  “I wouldn’t believe everything I heard about that incident,” Buck said, stiffening defensively. “I’ve known Jock a long time, and he’s a good man.”

  Milo nodded absently, staring at the damp surface of the bar. “I reckon it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”

  “No one’s forcing you to,” Buck replied coolly, then picked up his beer and walked away. He’d almost felt good there for a while, talking about Mase and the old days, but Milo had wrecked that brief peace.

  Damn those old stories, Buck thought. They clung to Jock and those around him like ticks on a deer. Even if there was some truth in them, they didn’t change the kind of man Jock had become or diminish the things he’d accomplished since then. Chihuahua was a long time ago, and Buck had always taken comfort in the fact that no two tales he’d heard of that affair were ever alike. It gave him hope that most of what was said was nothing more than the rants of men jealous of Jock’s success, and that those who had died out there on the blazing plains of Mexico—the mutineers—had deserved their fate.

  Buck pushed his niggling doubts aside. He’d come here for a reason, then allowed himself to be sidetracked by a chance to forget. It was time he got back to business.

  He took up a position near the end of the bar, within sight of the storeroom door behind it. Within twenty minutes, Ashley yanked an empty beer keg from its rack under the bar, hoisted it onto his shoulder, then disappeared into the back room. Buck waited until the second bartender turned away, then slipped behind the counter and through the door.

  Ashley was in
the far corner, wrestling a full twenty-gallon keg onto a steel-wheeled dolly. He looked up when Buck walked in. “Hey, you can’t come in here.”

  “I want to talk to you,” Buck said, making his way down a narrow aisle of whiskey crates stacked shoulder-high.

  “The hell with you, McCready. I got nothing to say.”

  The only light in the room came from a single lamp fixed to the wall beside the door, but its chimney was blackened with soot, and, in the shadows, Buck couldn’t see Ashley’s hands. Stopping several paces away, Buck put his own hand over his Colt. “I want to talk to you about Mase.”

  “I already talked to Dunbar about him. I don’t hafta talk to you, too.”

  “Sure you do,” Buck said, sliding his revolver part way out of its holster. “Who killed him?”

  “How should I know? It could ’a’ been anybody. Hell, it could ’a’ been you. You got his job, didn’t cha?”

  “Tell me, Ashley, or I’ll ram your head through that beer keg.”

  “By God, you’re a snooty son-of-a-bitch. Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because I’m quick running out of patience,” Buck replied, his fingers tightening on the Colt.

  Ashley looked disgruntled for a moment, then swore and said: “All right, keep that hogleg sheathed.” He paused briefly as if to collect his thoughts. “Campbell came stumblin’ in here ’bout ten o’clock that night and bullied his way into a card game. Was seven or eight of ’em playin’, all of ’em strangers and ever’ damn’ one drunk as skunks. After an hour or so a fracas got up between Campbell and some big fella with a beard. Big fella started callin’ Campbell a cheat and threatenin’ to cut off his ears with a Bowie knife, but Campbell called his bluff. Pulled his own sticker and told that big bastard to come ahead and try, but the big fella wouldn’t do it. He tried to pull in his horns, but Campbell wouldn’t let him. He kept badgerin’ that big fella till he finally quit the game and left. He was makin’ some dark promises when he went that night, lookin’ meaner’n a treed cougar. That’s it, that’s all I can tell ya.”

  “What about Mase?”

  “Threw his cards in ’bout midnight, had hisself a last drink, then wobbled out the front door to go home.”

  “Wobbled?”

  “Barely standin’.” Ashley smirked brightly. “Ya might ’a’ thought the moon rose and set on Mason Campbell, sonny, but most of the boys ’round here figured he was a.…”

  “Keep it to yourself,” Buck warned.

  Ashley’s grin broadened. “Why, sure, boss. Hell, it wasn’t me all the time kissin’ Campbell’s ass. I reckon.…”

  Buck’s right hand came up smoothly, the Colt leveling down on Ashley as if it had a mind of its own. “Don’t push your luck, brother.”

  The bartender swallowed hard, his grin disappearing. “All right, what else ya wanna know?”

  “I want to know about the big guy with the beard.”

  Ashley considered the question a few seconds, then said: “Had him a pitted face, like he’d one time or another had the pox. Kinda greasy-lookin’, his clothes all worn out and dirty. Mostly he was just big, real big. Six foot, three or four and maybe weighed two-fifty. Not fat, just solid, like an ox.”

  “You told Dunbar he had a partner.”

  “Naw, I didn’t say he had a partner. I said there was a skinny little fella following him out the door like he had a purpose in doin’ so, but I didn’t get a good look at ’im. He wore a green plaid jacket and an old porkpie hat and was pretty scroungy-lookin’ himself, come to think on it.”

  “You’d never seen either one before?”

  “Not before nor since.”

  A shadow loomed at the door, and the second bartender shouted: “Gawd dammit, Tom, what are you doing back there? I need some help.”

  Ashley met Buck’s gaze. “Anything else?” he asked, his sarcasm returned.

  Buck holstered his Colt. “No, I guess not.”

  Laughing, Ashley said: “I been listenin’ to some of the boys talkin’, and they been sayin’ ol’ Buck McCready’s ridin’ straight into the jaws of hell, like a mule with blinders on. Might not come back is what they’re sayin’.”

  Buck eyes narrowed. “Just who is it that’s saying that?”

  “Oh, just some of the boys, McCready. Just some of the boys.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Buck was at the C.P. siding before dawn the next morning to supervise the loading of BMC’s freight onto Box K wagons. It was gut-busting labor to make the transfer. The eight big iron stampers weighed just under a ton apiece, and the boilers took up the bulk of two wagons all by themselves. The collapsible smokestack, two steam engines, an assortment of parts needed to assemble everything once it reached Montana, plus tools and furnishings for a new regional office, filled the rest of the wagons.

  Each Box K muleskinner would handle one wagon loaded with BMC freight, while their second, or trail wagon, carried lighter goods for Jock’s regular customers in Virginia City. The five independent drivers Jock had hired for the journey would haul smaller orders for long-standing customers—merchandise that wouldn’t be as expensive to replace as BMC’s specialized equipment, in the event of an accident.

  Around midafternoon, Buck started to worry that Jock had underestimated the amount of space they’d need for such a motley collection of machinery, but by 5:00 P.M. he was breathing easier again. By 7:00 P.M., they were lashing down the last of the twin osnaburg covers that would protect the cargo against blowing rain or a late-season snowstorm.

  “By God, Bucky,” Peewee said when they’d finished, “one more box of pencils and we’d’ve had to beg another wagon from the old man.”

  “It was tight,” Buck agreed.

  Peewee chuckled as he rolled down his sleeves. He was a short-legged man in his early forties., his face and hands weathered to a leathery toughness, his arms ropy with muscle. Although he lacked an official title with Kavanaugh Freight, it was generally understood that, on the trail, he ranked behind only the wagon boss and ramrod in authority.

  “You coming over to the camp tonight?” Peewee asked, referring to the spot across the Bear River where the Box K’s Montana train was waiting to pull out.

  Retrieving his coat and gun belt from where he’d laid them that morning, Buck said: “Probably not.”

  Peewee’s smile revealed a row of perfectly carved ivories— elephant, the dentist had assured him. “You tellin’ me Dulce can’t do without your company for one night?” he demanded.

  “It ain’t that. I’ve got some other business to take care of.”

  Peewee’s expression sobered. “Mase?”

  Buck nodded and glanced across the street to where Ray Jones, Joe Perry, Nate Evans, and Nate’s son, Rossy, were standing beside Nate’s lead wagon, killing time. Buck knew he should at least drop by the camp long enough to share a cup of coffee with the crew, but time was growing short and it still bothered him that they hadn’t discovered Mase’s killer. He was afraid that, if they didn’t find him soon, they never would. “Is everything all right over there?” he asked Peewee.

  “At camp? Sure.”

  Buck gave him a gauging look, and Peewee shrugged.

  “You know how it is with new men. It’ll shake out as soon as we get rolling.”

  “You’re in charge,” Buck reminded him.

  “The old hands think that way. The new ones don’t.”

  “Tell ’em.”

  “It ain’t my job to tell ’em,” Peewee reminded him gently.

  Buck flinched inwardly, but he wasn’t going to give up his last chance to look for Mase’s killer. “I’ll talk to Jock. Maybe he can drive over before he goes home tonight.”

  Hesitantly Peewee said: “We’ve got something for you, Buck. If you was comin’ over tonight, we’d wait so that all the boys could be there, but since you ain’t, and since we’re putting out first thing tomorrow.…”

  “What is it?”

  Peewee waved for the muleskinners acr
oss the street to join them. “Come on over!” he shouted. “Let’s do it now.”

  “Let’s do what now?” Buck asked suspiciously.

  “Now, don’t go gettin’ wall-eyed on us. It’s just something me ’n’ the boys talked about yesterday at Mase’s funeral, and we all agreed it was the thing to do. The others would’ve been here, too, if they wasn’t watchin’ over the wagons and stock.”

  Buck glanced across the street. Rossy had stayed back with the wagons and mules, but Ray, Nate, and Joe were already stepping over the iron rails of the C.P. siding like a trio of grimfaced hangmen.

  “It ain’t nothing horrible,” Peewee assured him. “We ain’t gonna ask you to ride a horse instead of a mule. It’s just something we figured ought to be.”

  Buck eyed the approaching men skeptically. Ray was carrying a parcel wrapped in gunny sacking under one arm. He was one of the older hands on Jock’s payroll, an ex-Missourian with sandy-colored hair that was thinning rapidly under a gray felt hat he seldom removed. His faded blue eyes were set into a deeply-tanned face, and his shoulders were endlessly slumped as if from exhaustion, although Buck knew that, even at fifty, Ray could outwork most men half his age.

  Nate was on Ray’s right. He was Jock’s newest muleskinner, having shown up in Corinne barely a year ago with a wife, two young daughters, and a fourteen-year-old son named Roscoe, who everyone called Rossy. Nate was tall and well-proportioned, with skin the color of stained mahogany; his short, kinky hair was startng to gray at the temples, but he still carried himself with a younger man’s confidence.

  Rossy Evans was even darker-skinned than his father, and already as broad through the shoulders, although he still lacked several inches of Nate’s six feet. Rossy swamped for his father on the trail when he wasn’t riding night hawk on the remuda. He was the youngest man in the outfit by quite a few years, a good, dependable hand, though shy around the evening mess. The Evanses hailed from Ohio, where Nate had been working with mules since he was old enough to hang onto a lead rope.