by Jack Ballas
While descending toward the town, they watched the smoke grow, then decrease until it showed only a thin, wispy spiral in the cold air. Cantrell nodded in its direction. “Reckon it’s done burned itself out. They’s a few riders comin’ from that direction, headed back to town.”
Lingo squinted toward the trail leading from the ravine, and nodded. “Yeah, reckon that caps it off. We’ll go to the saloon first, that’s where they’ll gather to talk ’bout it. They might even know whose cabin it was.”
The two tall men pushed their way from the chill outside air into the warmth of the saloon. Miners stood two deep at the bar, all talking about the fire. Cantrell stood behind a couple of men who’d only then gotten a fresh drink. He asked one of them to yell to the bartender to get him a couple of glasses of straight whisky.
When the man handed him their drinks, he asked whose cabin it was that had burned.
“A Easterner an’ his woman lived there.” The miner shook his head. “Don’t know what happened to her, but they wuz two bodies lyin’ in the ashes; both pretty well burned such that nobody could tell who they wuz. Know neither o’ them what got burned up in the fire wuz a woman.”
“How you figger?”
The miner pushed his cap back on his head. “Well, ’bout the only thing what wuzn’t burned to a cinder wuz the boots an’ shoes they wuz wearin’. Neither one o’ ’em wuz woman’s wear.”
Quint handed Lingo one of the glasses he held, and nodded. “Let’s knock these back, have another, then go see what we figger happened. Maybe both o’ them we wuz chasin’ burned up ’fore we could catch ’em.”
Lingo stared into his glass a moment, knocked it back, and handed the empty glass to Cantrell. “Mighta happened that way, but hope not. I want to make damned sure Bartow was the one causin’ Emily Lou all that misery.”
The miner standing in front of Cantrell handed him two more glasses filled to the rim. Quint dropped a couple of coins in his hand in payment, handed Lingo his drink, and tossed his down, then tugged on Barnes’s coat. “Let’s go see what we can find out ’fore they bury them bodies.”
In less than half an hour, they stood with a group of miners at the edge of where the cabin once stood. The fire still smoldered, and the smell of burned bodies clung to their noses, and the roofs of their mouths.
The ground, slow to give up its heat, kept them at the periphery of what only a few hours ago had been living quarters. Lingo looked from the ashes to a man standing next to him. “Anybody try to get into the place to see what happened?”
The stranger shook his head. “Ain’t nobody figgered to blister their feet in them coals. Them bodies need to be buried, but it’s gonna take some time for this ground to cool down enough to let a man walk on it.”
Lingo snorted the strong smoke smell from his nostrils, glanced toward the sun, and nodded. “Figure by late afternoon it’ll be cool enough to walk on. I’m gonna wait ’til it is.”
“You know that Easterner?”
Barnes shook his head. “Nope, but got ’im figured as a man I wouldn’t be proud to call a friend.”
The man slanted him a questioning look, as if to ask: If Lingo didn’t know the Easterner, how did he know he wouldn’t call him a friend? But he didn’t voice the question, and Barnes moved away from him, not wanting to answer any questions.
He walked to the edge of the clearing and sat. Cantrell grunted and lowered himself to the ground next to him. “What you figger to do now?”
“Well, gonna wait’ll I can git close enough to check those bodies out.” He pulled his shoulders down into his sheepskin. He snorted. “Damn, never could stand the smell o’ burned humans.”
“Maybe it’ll be gone by the time we can get close enough to take a look.”
Lingo shook his head. “You know better’n that. That stink’ll still be in our clothes ’til we scrub it out with lye soap.”
The two men sat there. Curious onlookers came and went. One man tried to go into the still smoldering coals, but quickly, hopping from one foot to the other, came back to cool ground, glanced sourly at the charred pile of wood, and walked away.
Finally, Lingo stood, walked to the edge of the cabin remains, stooped, and tested the ground with the palm of his hand. He jerked it from the hot soil and looked over his shoulder toward Cantrell. “Still too hot for bare skin, but figure if we get in, see what we wantta see, an’ get back to cool soil our boots’ll let us stand it a mite.”
Quint unfolded himself to stand erect, looked at his boots as if to make sure they weren’t a good pair, and stepped toward Barnes. “Let’s look, then wait’ll we git back here and talk ’bout what we seen.”
Lingo answered with a nod.
They stood by the charred bodies, swept the remains from head to toe, then walked around the area, kicked some timbers aside that had not been totally consumed by the flames, and when Barnes feet felt like they had cooked through his bootsoles, he motioned Cantrell he’d seen enough.
Back where they’d left their horses, Cantrell said, “Let’s git on back to the saloon, git a water glass full o’ good whisky, an’ talk ’bout what we seen.”
Lingo nodded and toed the stirrup. When they both sat their saddles, one of the onlookers yelled, “Ain’t y’all gonna hep us bury ’em?”
Quint gave the miner a long look. “Let ’em rot. They wuzn’t worth workin’ up a sweat.” He reined his horse toward Silverton. Lingo followed.
Again in the saloon, Cantrell bought a bottle of whisky and walked toward an empty table sitting at the back wall. When he had poured them each a glassful, he looked at Barnes. “What you make of what you seen?”
Lingo took a mouthful of whisky, swished it around in his mouth to try and rid himself of the taste that lingered at the back of his throat, swallowed, and gave a jerky nod. “Tell you what, Quint, only one o’ those Easterners died in that fire. That other body was Shorty Gates by my figuring. Both of the Easterners that rode away from that stage holdup were tall men. That short body was Gates’s sure as I’m sittin’ here, and to make me believe it even more, he was wearin’ cow boots.”
Quint nodded and took a swallow of his drink. “Noticed that, too.” He knocked back his drink and poured another. “What else you notice?”
Lingo stared into his glass a moment, then pinned Cantrell with a questioning look. “You see any burnt-out weapons: handguns, rifles, anything like that?” He frowned. “Reckon in addition to that, I figure that fire was set. There was an empty lamp oilcan close to the stove. I figure whoever set that fire got a bunch o’ help from a generous splashin’ of that oil.”
Quint gave him a cold smile. “Nope. An’ them two we been chasin’ both were carryin’ guns accordin’ to what you told Marshal Nolan. What you reckon happened to them guns?” He nodded. “I noticed the lamp oilcan, too; an’ figgered it the same way you got it figgered.”
Barnes took a drink. “I reckon one o’ those Easterners is ridin’ like his butt’s on fire to get to Grand Junction—an’ he’s carryin’ every weapon that was in the cabin.”
“Way I got it figgered.” Cantrell pushed back from the table. “Let’s go check with the storekeeper; see if maybe an Easterner’s been in to buy supplies. Cain’t b’lieve a man would be dumb enough to head outta here without stockin’ up on victuals.”
Lingo downed the rest of his drink, stood, and looked at Quint. “All right, we’ll check the storekeeper, then go to the cafe, eat, an’ then get us a hotel room. We can get an early start in the mornin’.”
Cantrell chuckled. “Gonna enjoy sleepin’ in a warm bed even more, what with knowin’ that bastard’s gonna be ’longside that mountain shiverin’ an’ shakin’, an’ still not knowin’ he ain’t got a chance in hell of gittin’ over that pass.”
Sam led his party ever upward, hoping to cross over into Lingo’s valley before night.
Sam’s hopes were rewarded. They crossed into the valley that Lingo had watched burn, crossed the acres of blackened trees hol
ding their denuded trunks toward the sky, climbed again, crossed a rocky ridge, and looked down on the hanging valley, appearing even more beautiful after the burned desolation of the one they’d crossed.
Slagle slanted Colter a look. He looked tired, older, his face tinging on gray. The trip so soon, even with the tender care Maddie had given him, had taxed his reserve strength to its limit.
Sam led them downslope until in the trees, then looked for a rock outcropping to shelter them from the wind. He found what he looked for: trees close by, a spring trickling from the rocks, all enclosed on three sides. He reined in. “We’ll make camp here and ride on in to Lingo’s cabin in the morning.” He swung his leg across his horse’s rump, stepped from the saddle, and reached up to help Colter down. The old man slumped into his arms.
“Here now, I done wore you out; shouldn’t have pushed so hard to git us outta that there burned area.” With Miles leaning heavily on him Sam went to the base of a tall spruce, and with one hand raked needles into a pile, then lowered the old man to sit on them. He looked over his shoulder at Maddie. “Ma’am, I’m gonna build a fire, then I’ll hep you fix some victuals for supper.” He pushed his cap back, massaged his forehead a moment, then grinned. “Reckon we’d all welcome a cup o’ hot coffee ’fore we eat. I’ll git the water.”
“Mister Slagle, you fix the coffee, but you ain’t gonna hep me cook nothin’. Cookin’s a woman’s work when they’s a woman around to do it—an’ I’m around.”
She stood aside a few moments while Sam got the fire going, then got out a blanket and put it around Colter’s shoulders. “In your condition you might catch your death o’ cold.” She glanced at Slagle. “Seen you stash a couple bottles o’ whisky in your saddlebags. When that coffee you jest fixed is ready, I figger to pour Mister Colter a jolt in his cup.”
To Sam’s thinking, her voice meant she was going to give Miles Colter a drink of Sam’s whisky come hell or high water. He grinned. “Sorta figgered you an’ me might spike our coffee with a little, too.”
While waiting for the coffee to brew, Maddie went about getting provisions from the pack saddle while Sam went about unsaddling, spreading groundsheets, blankets, and making their camp as comfortable as possible considering the cold that would penetrate them during the night.
Finally, with the coffee ready, Slagle threw a handful of cold water from the spring into the pot to settle the grounds, then poured them a half a cup. “Figger this first cup oughtta be mostly whisky. Know Miles can stand a heavy shot, ’cause he’s done wore out, an’ you an’ me, Maddie”—he let a sly grin spread his lips and he nodded—“yep, you an’ me gonna have a special one to celebrate getting away from Silverton without having to fight, an’ along with Miles only a few hours from seein’ that there pretty little daughter o’ his.”
While sitting, letting the fire warm them from the outside, and the whisky burning its way into their stomaches, Slagle felt Colter’s eyes studying him. He glanced at the old man and saw that color had come back into his face. “What’s botherin’ you, Miles? You look like you got somethin’ to say; so spit it out.”
Colter stared him in the eye a couple of moments, then shifted his gaze to Maddie. He coughed, then glanced at the ground. “There’s something I haven’t told either of you. I’ve been making like I knew what you were talking about when you spoke of me having a daughter named Emily Lou, and that she’s come out here to see me.”
He cleared his throat, took a swallow of coffee, then looked at them straight on. “Tell you what’s a fact. I don’t remember where I’m from; where Emily Lou has been, or even that I have a daughter—nothing.
“All I can remember is Bartow burning me, starving me, hitting me, an’ witholding water from me ’til my tongue swelled up.” He took another swallow of coffee. “He kept askin’ me where the rich vein was that I’d uncovered—I don’t even remember where it is, or even if I have discovered a rich vein; wouldn’t have told ’im if I did.” He looked at his feet, moved some needles aside with one foot, then looked back at them. “Everything before waking up in my bunk with Bartow bending over me is blank.”
Before Sam could soak up what Colter had told them, Maddie dropped to her knees at the old man’s side and pulled him to her breast. “Oh, you poor man.” Then, as though crooning to an infant, she rocked back and forth, holding him close.
Slagle looked at Colter’s face, and despite the seriousness of what they’d only moments before been told, he had to choke back a laugh. Miles Colter was trying to shrink from Maddie’s arms, his face now showing more color than a sunburned cowboy.
“Maddie, turn that there man loose. You done embarrassed ’im somethin’ awful. Pour us all another coffee an’ whisky; then come sit by me. We gotta think on what Miles done told us.”
It was her turn to be embarrassed. She dropped her arms to her side, looked to each of them, skittered back on her knees, then quickly did as Slagle told her.
They sat there for several minutes. Sam stared into the fire all the while, then looked from one to the other of them. “Never said nothin’ ’bout it ’fore, but I wuz in The War ’Tween the States. Fit fer the North—didn’t really give a damn ’bout what they wuz fittin’ ’bout but everybody else wuz doin’ it so I done it.” He shrugged, took a swallow of his coffee; now almost straight whisky since Maddie apparently thought they needed it after Colter’s revelation.
He coughed when the whisky burned down his throat, then shook his head. “I seen cases sorta like this afore. Seen men git their arms or laigs sawed off, an’ afterward couldn’t remember much, if anything, of what happened before they woke up with part o’ themselves missin’.”
He took another swallow. “Tell you though, most o’ them men started rememberin’ a little at a time until after a while they remembered ever’thing. Reckon their mind jest locked ever’thing out ’til they got some healin’ done.”
He felt Maddie studying him, then after a while she said, “Sam Slagle, you ain’t jest sayin’ that to make Mister Colter feel better, are you?”
Sam shook his head—slowly. “Maddie, ain’t gonna lie to you ’bout somethin’ like this. I done seed ever’thin’ I said, jest like I said it.”
Colter broke into their conversation, and very unlike the gentleman they’d learned to know, pinned Maddie with a hard look. “Maddie, where I come from, wherever that is, we don’t put a mister or missus to a body’s name if we’re friends; and I’d certainly like you to be my friend.”
Despite having been kicked around in trail town saloons, and from one man to another, and hard as granite—that is, the part she showed the world—tears streamed down her cheeks. “M-m-Mister Colter, you sayin’ I’m your friend . . . that is the kind o’ friend what can call you by your first name?”
Miles stared at her a moment. “Maddie, if you’re not that kind o’ friend, there’s not a man in the world who has a friend of that quality.” He cleared his throat, obviously trying to rid it of the knot trying to choke him. “You bet you’re that kind of friend, and I consider it an honor to call you my friend.”
Sam sat there. He didn’t say a word. It wasn’t often a man could witness the making of a real friend. Money, social status, accomplishments, physical beauty—none of these had anything to do with the making of a friend. It was a feeling, a something he couldn’t define—sorta like the way he and Lingo had partnered up. He sat there, but felt so good he thought he’d burst at the seams. Damn! He had to be the luckiest bastard in the world.
After they drank the rest of the heavily spiked coffee Maddie had poured, she cooked supper, threatening to hit Sam with the frying pan if he didn’t sit down and let her work without interference.
Before pulling their blankets up under their chins, they talked, and all the while Slagle wished he knew enough about Colter to bring things up that might trigger his memory.
Finally, before closing his eyes, he decided to ride ahead of them in the morning and bring Emily Lou, Kelly, and Wes up to d
ate on what to expect.
The next morning, Sam told them he was going to ride ahead and alert them he was bringing in a couple of friends; told them he figured it would be smart to do so in that Wes Higgins usually fired before asking questions. What he really wanted to do was make them aware of Colter’s condition. He gave Maddie directions on which way to ride, saddled up, and left.
It took about three hours of steady riding to get within hailing distance of Lingo’s cabin. Then, not chancing getting too close, he yelled, “Hello the cabin. Sam Slagle here. Comin’ in.”
Wes stepped out of the door, a rifle resting in the crook of his arm. “Come on in, step down an’ rest your saddle, Sam. Good to see you; where’s Lingo?”
Sam rode on to the cabin, did as Wes had directed, hitched his horse to the post set in the ground for that purpose, and looked at the kid. “Got a lot to tell you soon’s my backsides rest a little. Where’s Kelly an’ Emily?”
“Inside. Come on in. We’ll talk.”
A few moments later, the four of them sat at the table, a cup of coffee in front of them. Emily, her voice a little breathless, toyed with her cup and stared into the steaming liquid, obviously trying to bolster her courage to ask a question. She looked up into Sam’s eyes. “Is Lingo hurt?”
Slagle shook his head. “Naw now, little one, Lingo’s all right fer as I know. I figger he’s chasin’ the varmint what ran the gang that took you off’n that there stage. I got two other people with me. They’re ’bout two, maybe three hours behind. I come ahead to let you know what to expect.”
He took a sip of his coffee, wondering how to break the news to Emily that one of those he’d left behind was her father, what he’d been through, and that he probably wouldn’t remember her.
He decided to put it all on the table in front of them, then let them ask questions.
He looked at Emily straight on. “One o’ them folks what’s behind me is your pa. He’s done been through hell, little girl, an’ it’s caused ’im to blank out all that happened ’fore this here man tortured ’im.”