by Jory Sherman
“What’s the name of this place?”
“Why, the Cherokee Hotel. I didn’t get your name, young feller.”
Jed had to think for a moment. Two names popped into his head and he blurted them out.
“Trent,” he said. “Trent Whitby.”
“Odd name. I’ll surely let you know when them two come in. But if they stay at the Cherokee, you’ll likely run into them afore I can get word to you. That all right?”
“Sure, Wilbur. Don’t forget to shoe that gelding for me.”
“I looked at his shoes, Mr. Whitby. He’s good for another month of hard ridin’, at least.”
“I don’t want to have to worry about it. Just shoe him, will you please?”
“I’ll do ’er,” Simpson said.
Jed gave him some bills, enough to cover feed, boarding, and the shoeing.
“That enough?” Jed asked.
“More’n adequate, Mr. Whitby. It’s a pleasure doin’ business with you. You got a real fine horse there. I’ll give him a good curry combing, so’s he’ll look real nice.”
“Thanks.”
Jed left his saddle and bridle in the tack room at the livery stables and carried his rifle and saddlebags with him. As he walked up the street, he heard a distant train whistle. The Cherokee Hotel was not hard to spot. It had a weathered-frame front and a large sign above the entrance. Lamplight flared orange through the windows, left distorted rectangles on the street outside. There were hitchrails in front of the boardwalk. Three horses were tied there, all with U.S. Army brands.
He checked in with the night clerk, signed the name Trent Whitby in the register and paid six dollars for three nights, which included breakfast, he was told. He heard voices coming from a room off the lobby. He glanced over and saw a sign above the door that said Saloon.
“Dining room’s on the other side of the saloon,” the clerk said. “Boss wants people to go through the bar in case they get thirsty.”
The clerk laughed, and so did Jed.
“Room 105, upstairs. Looks out over the street, if that’s all right? Everybody wants a back room and those are all taken. My name’s George, if you need anything. There’s a slop jar in the room, a water pitcher and a bowl. Bath’s out back, four bits.”
“Thanks,” Jed said, taking the key from George. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. Kitchen still open?”
“The dining room’s open until midnight. You from Texas?”
“Uh, yes. Why do you ask?”
“Just thought so. You have that drawl that says Texas or down south. We don’t get many Texans in here, but there was a man left this morning who said he’d been there. Name of Dan Brand.”
“Let me know if he comes back anytime soon, will you, George?”
“Sure, Mr. Whitby. Likely he won’t be back soon, but he left money to pay for rooms for two of his friends.”
“Good. Maybe they’re from Texas.”
“Dunno. Could be.”
Jed reached up and realized he didn’t have a hat. He saluted George and climbed up the stairs to his room. He’d have to buy a hat. His was back in Abilene. He also wanted to find a telegraph office, or a place where they at least had a post rider who could carry a telegram and cash to Topeka, so that he could send some of his money to his mother. He would do all of that in the morning.
He set down his bedroll and saddlebags, took his rifle from its scabbard and leaned it on the wall next to the bed. He looked out the window, down into the street. The three army horses were still there. And there was one other, which hadn’t been there before. The man must have ridden up while Jed was climbing the stairs to his room. It was a local horse, though. No saddlebags, no bedroll.
He was safe enough for the time being. But if Wilbur was right, two of Colter’s henchmen would be in town soon. If he could befriend them, he might learn what Colter planned to do.
Whatever it was, Jed reasoned, he was sure that Colter had something in mind, or he wouldn’t be expecting those men. And, whatever it was, Jed was also certain that it was probably illegal.
He washed the dust off his face and left the room, locking it behind him. He descended the stairs and walked into the saloon.
A man at the bar whom Jed did not recognize beckoned to him.
Jed walked over, blinking until his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Three cavalrymen were shooting pool in a far corner of the room. They looked up at him briefly and went back to their game. They were drinking beer.
“Howdy, stranger, buy you a drink?” the man at the bar said. “I don’t cotton to drinkin’ alone.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Nope, not yet. But a stranger is just someone you ain’t met yet. And I aim to meet you if you’ll belly up to the bar and let me buy you a drink. What’s your pleasure?”
And that was when Jed Brand met Ethan Talbot, who would prove to be someone he needed to know at just that crucial time in his life.
CHAPTER
13
ETHAN TALBOT HAD THE KIND OF WEATHER-BEATEN face that showed he had been “rode hard and put up wet,” as Jed’s father used to say. He wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t that old, either. He just looked as if he had lived a hard life. But he had a twinkle in his eye that told Jed that the past was over and he was making up for lost time.
“You got that far-off look in your eyes, friend,” Talbot said, lifting his whiskey glass in a toast.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Down some of that and wash the dust out of your throat and tell me your name.”
Jed was not used to whiskey, so he took a sip and felt it burn a raw path down his throat. But he liked the warm feeling the drink gave him and the way it took the tiredness out of his bones.
“Uh, my name is Whitby,” Jed lied. “Trent Whitby.”
“Like hell it is.” Talbot smiled when he said it, but his words sent a chill of fear through him.
“It’s what I use.”
“Names don’t mean much out here, I reckon, but you picked a real dilly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I been to Abilene, and I know a man named Malcolm Trent. And he pards with a slick banker named Whitby. I figure you just rode in from Abilene, and you’re lookin’ over your shoulder, young’un.”
“I thank you for the drink, Mr. Talbot. I’m hungry and I’m going to eat.”
Jed started to leave, but Talbot grabbed his arm and held it in a tight grip.
“You haven’t finished your drink yet and there ain’t no need to run from me. I’m not going to bite you.” Talbot paused. “Or turn you in.”
“I think you’ve got me all wrong, Mr. ….”
“Ethan. Call me Ethan. And I’m not wrong about people. Men, especially. You’re runnin’ from something, and if you keep that hunted look in your eyes, somebody’s damned sure goin’ to find you.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. … Ethan?”
“You’ve got the look of an owlhooter about you. But, an owlhooter with no experience at it.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that expression,” Jed said. “I heard it before in Abilene. I just don’t know what it means.”
“Owlhooter? It means someone like you. On the run from the law. Hiding out. Riding at night.”
“Well, I’m not one of those.”
“Maybe. But you got the look. I should know.”
Jed took another sip of the whiskey. It went down smoother than the first swallow. More of his tiredness seemed to drift away.
“How do you know? Are you an owlhooter?”
Talbot laughed.
“I rode the owlhoot trail.”
“Owlhoot trail? Is that a road, or what?”
“Son, you are a pilgrim, ain’t ye?”
“I reckon so,” Jed said, a sheepish look on his face.
“Likely, if you bucked the law, maybe back in Abilene, the marshal there will put out wanted flyers and maybe put up some posters on you, offerin
g a reward. When that happens, the law will start closing in on you and you’ll have to take to the owlhoot trail. No, it ain’t no regular road, to answer your question, but it’s a road all right, and it’s dangerous and lonesome.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Jed said. “I’m not an outlaw.”
Talbot gestured to the bartender, holding up two fingers. Jed shook his head, but Talbot ignored him.
“I don’t know what you done, feller, and I don’t care. Maybe you’re innocent. But your eyes tell me you’re on the run and it ain’t from no woman. I saw the way you stepped inside this saloon, the way your eyes combed over the room and the way you looked at them soldier boys over there. And at me. I’ve seen that haunted look on many a man’s face and I wore it myself for a good long spell.”
The bartender poured two more whiskies. Jed looked at the fresh glass and took another sip of his first one. Then he downed it in one gulp, which took his breath away. His eyes watered and one hand pressed hard on the edge of the bar as if he were holding on to the edge of a cliff. He felt his knees go rubbery for a moment, but he recovered. He wiped the tears away from his eyes by rubbing a sleeve across them.
“You ain’t used to the whiskey yet, either. But you will be, by and by. A good drink can lift a man’s spirits when he’s feelin’ low, and it can sharpen him if he don’t take too much. It can also buy you a friend or two along the way, when you’ll most need ’em.”
“I don’t plan to ride no owlhoot trail,” Jed said stubbornly. “I have some business to take care of and then I’m going back home to Texas.”
“Sometimes fate takes a hand in a man’s life,” Talbot said.
“I don’t believe in fate. I think a man makes his own fate.”
“Ah, a bright mind. That’s good, my newfound friend. Then, what about destiny? Do you believe in that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what it is.”
“Well, maybe fate is what befalls a man. Circumstances, you know. If you have gotten yourself into trouble, through no fault of your own, maybe that’s what fate is.”
Jed considered what Talbot had said. Maybe, he thought, there was something to fate, after all.
“If you put it that way….” Jed said.
“And then there’s destiny.”
“What about it?”
“Maybe destiny is what a man is supposed to do in life. Maybe fate is what happens to a man on his way to fulfilling his destiny.”
“I never thought about such things before. And I don’t know if I want to think about them now. I’m tired and I’m hungry and this whiskey is something I’m not used to.”
“I didn’t think about fate neither. Nor destiny. Until I got caught up in both of ’em along the owlhoot trail.”
“What happened?” Jed asked.
“I committed a crime, or so they said. I was just a youngster, younger’n you are now.” Talbot toyed with his whiskey glass, staring at it as if he were looking back into his own past. “A man I knew asked me to keep a strongbox for him. He didn’t say what was in it, and I didn’t ask because I trusted this man. Later, there was a knock on the door and my mother let in the sheriff and a deputy. They searched my room and found the strongbox. It was full of money. They asked me where I got it and I told them I had found it. I didn’t want to tell them the truth. The strongbox had been stolen off a stage, at gunpoint, by this man I knew and he was hiding out. The sheriff said he was going to arrest me for stage robbery. I ran.”
“You got away?”
“I did. I rode the owlhoot trail. And then I was caught.”
“What happened?”
“I was sent to prison, at Fort Leavenworth. The money that was stolen was army payroll.”
“But you were innocent, Mr. Talbot.”
Talbot laughed.
“If a man runs, he’s considered guilty by a jury and by the judge. I ran. I was hunted. Day and night. I stayed off the main roads. I slept in places where a dog wouldn’t sleep. I lived like a criminal, so, in the eyes of the law, I was a criminal. I did my time and now I’m a free man. I paid my debt to society.”
“What about the man who had given you the strong-box? What ever happened to him? If they caught him, he could have told the truth and you would have been found innocent.”
Talbot looked Jed square in the eye.
“They never caught him. And he died without ever clearing me. My ma told me that he was sorry he had done that to me. He told her that just before he put a pistol to his head and blew his brains out.”
“Who was he? Couldn’t he have left a note that would have cleared your name?”
“He could have. But he didn’t. People are surprising, you know. This man couldn’t face either his fate or his destiny. He just quit. He quit on himself and he quit on me and he quit on my ma. He quit on life, period.”
“I asked you who he was. This man who wronged you.”
“The man was my father,” Talbot said, and let out a long sigh.
Jed shook his head. There were tears in Talbot’s eyes and they were shadowy with the pain of remembering. Talbot looked down then, and rubbed his eyes.
When Talbot looked up again, his eyes had cleared and they twinkled with a lyrical light as if he had just shaken off the ghosts of the past and was an entirely different man.
“To you, my friend,” Talbot said, lifting his glass. “May fate be kind to you. May you fulfill your destiny.”
Talbot drank, and Jed lifted his glass, finished off the whiskey in it. It seemed to have no effect on him. But his stomach growled with hunger and he knew that another drink would befuddle him.
“Thank you, Mr. Talbot. I think. I’ll keep in mind what you told me. Now, I’ve got to go and eat. Thank you for the drinks. And the advice.”
Jed walked away from the bar on unsteady feet. He headed for the dining room. He looked at the cavalrymen as he passed, and they lifted their beer glasses to him and smiled.
Jed smiled back.
Just before he entered the dining room, he looked back toward the bar.
Talbot was gone.
Jed shook his head in disbelief. He wondered if he had dreamed it all. The whiskey was racing through his veins like wildfire and nothing seemed real.
The clatter of plates brought him back to reality. The smells inside the dining room assailed Jed’s nostrils, stirring the juices in his stomach. He sniffed the aromas of sautéed onions, beefsteak, potatoes, beans, and boiled turnips. There were some other diners seated at tables. None of them raised their heads. He might as well have been invisible, he thought.
He sat down and picked up the slate that was in front of him. The slate listed the daily fare and the words blurred for a moment until Jed could bring his eyes to focus on the menu.
He felt like a fugitive at that moment. He did not feel safe. He wished Talbot had not left. He should have invited him to supper, so that they could talk some more.
Now Jed was alone. And he felt as if he were already on the owlhoot trail, a nameless, hunted man, wanted by the law for crimes he did not commit.
Just like Ethan Talbot.
CHAPTER
14
TWO DAYS LATER, JED WAS AWAKENED BY A KNOCK ON his door. He reached for his pistol while rubbing sleep from his eyes. He chided himself that such an act had become so automatic. But the day before he had seen Hoyt, Boggs, and another man riding by in another part of town. They had gone straight to the sheriff’s office, carrying a sheaf of papers. Jed had let his beard grow and it was thickening on his face, feeling very much like a disguise.
He had bought a hat and new clothes, also, which helped change his appearance. Jubal had been shod and when he took the gelding out for a ride, then backtracked, he was satisfied that no tracker would know, just from looking, that it was the same horse he had ridden out of Abilene.
He learned, from a waiter who took meals into the jailhouse, the full names of the deputy marshals from Abilene who were hunting him. He had found the small
café on his second day in Junction City and made a point to go there for breakfast and strike up a conversation with the owner and his helper. The café was right across the street from the jail and the two men in the café talked about everything that went on inside the sheriff’s office.
The café owner’s name was Rudy Alberts and his cook and swamper went by the name of Willie Gorman. Willie was the one who told Jed that the marshal’s deputies were hunting for someone named Jedediah Brand. He said the lead deputy was Lloyd Hoyt, and one of the men was named Perry Boggs and the other man was not a marshal, but a hired gun, a manhunter named Sorel Jellico. Jellico was a friend of Bear River Smith’s, who had been a range detective, what some called a regulator.
“Jellico’s a bad ’un,” Willie told Jed. “Even the sheriff was scairt of him.”
“That Jellico’s been to Junction City before,” Rudy said. “I saw him shoot down two men who tried to draw on him. He kilt ’em before their six-guns could clear their holsters. They was hardcases wanted for murder but Jellico never gave ’em no chance. Like a snake, he was. Them two hardcases were like mice, and he bit ’em. Whoever he’s after, I pity ’em.”
“Yeah,” Willie said. “Jellico looks mean and he is mean.”
Jed left the café and went back to the hotel, thinking he’d better pack up and leave town before Hoyt and the others found out where he was. He had hoped he could wait for Colter’s return, but if Jellico was as quick on the trigger as Rudy Alberts said he was, Jed knew he was living on borrowed time in Junction City. He knew he didn’t stand a chance against three armed men.
“Who’s there?” he asked, then took several paces away from where he had been.
“It’s me, Wilbur Simpson.”
“You alone?”
“Yep. Got some news for you, Mr. Whitby.”
Jed holstered his pistol, strode to the door and opened it, still wary. His right hand rested on the butt of his Colt.
“Come on in, Wilbur.”