Alta Vista: Sage Country Book Two

by Dan Arnold

  “Yeah, we’re gonna catch bad weather either here or there,” I replied.

  “You’re both welcome to ride in the buggy with me.” Wes offered. “It will keep most of the rain off us.”

  “Thank you, no. I have my slicker, I’ll be fine.” Bob replied.

  “I was planning to ride with you anyway, Wes. Thanks,” I said.

  Bob and Wes turned the horses out into the pasture while I hung the harness on the pegs.

  “Can I offer you boys a late lunch?” I said.

  Bob grinned.

  “I timed my arrival a bit before the scheduled appointment in the hopes I would be invited,” He said.

  Wes nodded with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  ***

  By the time we finished at the barn, the children had eaten and were playing in the yard. Lora, Wes, Bob and I found ourselves thrown together. Not exactly the “family” meal I had hoped for.

  While the conversation was congenial, it was a little bit rushed, and there was an underlying tension. Lora was not her usual smiling and gracious self. As we wolfed down the delicious meal Consuela had prepared, we talked about the weather and events in town. It was strange there were only four of us at the table. Until recently, there’d always been a full dining room at lunch time. The current situation was not clear to either Lora or me. Lora wanted to take in boarders. While I wasn’t comfortable with the notion, I’d agreed to see how it worked out.

  We were still at the table when there was knock on the door. Consuela answered it, and brought a heavy set man into the dining room. Introductions were made all around. The man was named Tony Morgan. He was moving here from Iowa, and he was considering opening a furniture and appliance business in Bear Creek. He figured to be in the area for a week or so. We invited him to sit and eat. Someone in town had recommended he look into lodging here.

  “Well, I had a late breakfast in town, but I never turn down the offer of a home cooked meal,” he said.

  Bob and Wes excused themselves, and I took a moment to be alone with Lora while Consuela served the guest.

  I wrapped her in my arms.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, first thing. I’ll come straight home.” I told her.

  “Promise me, John,” she said, searching my eyes.

  “Of course, but I can’t be sure what time I’ll get back.”

  “No. Promise me that you really are coming back.”

  “Baby girl, I promise I’ll come home to you as fast as I can, unless God has other plans.”

  She closed her eyes and took a long slow breath.

  “That’s good enough for me. I’ll be praying every minute you’re gone. Don’t take any chances, darling. If it comes down to you or them . . . .”

  “I understand. I love you.”

  ***

  We loaded our gear into the buggy Wes was driving. Bob, wrapped in his slicker was riding his high stepping black horse. Wes and I were both wearing our slickers as well, though we were riding in the buggy. We could see the rain clouds descending out of the mountains, but the three of us were dry and in the sunshine for the time being.

  “When we get to North Fork, I plan to head straight into town and start hitting the saloons,” Bob started. “How do you boys want to handle it?”

  “I expect Wes and I’ll go straight to the property we want to look at, and then we’ll meet you at whatever time and place we agree on.”

  “Where would that be? I’ve never been up to North Fork.”

  I’d been giving it some thought.

  “As we come into town, the livery stable is on the left, and it’s the first thing you come to on the road as you’re going into North Fork. It’s about a block from the first saloon which is called the Jubilee House. I think we should meet in the barn, especially if it’s still raining up there.”

  “Where is this property you gentlemen are so bent on inspecting?”

  “It’s a large white house, right by the creek and about two blocks southwest of the main street. It sits on twenty five acres along the creek, so we’ll probably be able to see it as we head into town. We have to go right through the main part of North Fork before we take the lane over to the property. Like I said, I think we’ll drive straight there rather than stopping at the livery stable.”

  Bob looked worried.

  “What’s troubling you, Bob?”

  “This entire plan hinges on us having the element of surprise. We have to be able to get the drop on those men before they have any idea they are even in jeopardy. To me, going right through the middle of town just so you can look at a house seems like an unnecessary risk.”

  “Not really. First of all, we left later than planned, so by the time we get there it’ll be almost dark—it might even be raining. Second, I’m the only one of the three of us that anyone up there would recognize. When we go through town, I’ll pull down my hat and slump over in the buggy like I’m drunk or asleep. It’s a pretty common sight up there.”

  “Really, play acting? That’s the best answer you have? What do you think, preacher man?”

  Wes considered his reply.

  “I think it is all in God’s hands. Perhaps we could take a moment to pray together.”

  Bob snorted in disdain.

  “No offense, Parson, but perhaps you haven’t heard. There is a noted German theologian who has confirmed the death of God. It seems that after God created the universe, He died and left things spinning along all on their own. I am not about to waste my time praying to some dead God who can do nothing to help me in my present misery. I trust in Samuel Colt, Sharps, and Winchester, not God.”

  To my surprise, Wes just smiled!

  “Well, Bob, as it happens I am quite familiar with the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche. He is more of a philosopher and philologist than a theologian. He may also be quite insane. I know for a fact he is a bit too fond of the poppy. His work and influence was a topic of some research and discussion while I was at Seminary.”

  “Well, Reverend, it seems to me, Mr. Nietzsche’s focus has been on having an open mind and seeking the truth, especially as it is found in science, even when it is inconvenient to religion.”

  I had no idea Bob was such a reader.

  “So then, Bob, if I understand you correctly, you’re saying you believe in Truth with a capital ‘T.’ Is that correct?”

  Bob thought about it for a moment. I think he knew he was in trouble.

  “I’m saying the search for truth, whatever it may be, is vastly more important than a foolish belief in fairy tales and mysticism.”

  “I quite agree with you there, Bob…” Wes said.

  Bob glanced at him quickly.

  Wes didn’t acknowledge Bob’s surprised look. He just went on with his explanation.

  “The search for Truth is what eventually brought me to the Bible. I read it with an open mind and a fair amount of skepticism. I found the Truth, or maybe the Truth found me. Tell me, Bob, are you a student of the Bible?”

  “Hell, no! Oh, I’ve read it some, and I’ve heard plenty of preachers talk about it. It’s not for me, Preacher.”

  “Then you are in no position to talk about having either an open mind or a sincere search for Truth—are you, Bob?”

  We rode along in silence for a while.

  Occasionally, we met a rider or wagon coming down out of the mountains. They appeared to be hurrying to get away from the storm, the same storm we were riding directly up into.

  We could see the edge of the rain a couple of miles away. The thunderhead was a huge column of cloud, thousands of feet high, illuminated in several colors by the setting sun and the occasional flash of lightening from within. Thunder boomed occasionally.

  ***

  I hated to bring it up, but Wes had to know.

  “Wes, I was over at the railroad depot when the 12:10 to Denver came in. A man got off the train looking for you.”

  Wes just waited for me to go on.

  “He had
a tied down gun with five notches on the grip.”

  Wes took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Does the gentleman have a name?”

  “He said his name is Luke Watson. He’s young, maybe twenty or so. Do you know him?”

  Wes thought for a moment.

  “No. Not that I recall. Watson is a pretty common name. Did he indicate why he was looking for me?”

  “No, but he was on the prod and itching for a gun fight.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s in the city jail. Tom bent a gun barrel over his head to keep him from pulling his pistol on one of us.”

  Wes looked relieved.

  “Only a two bit punk carves notches in his gun,” Bob said.

  Wes nodded in agreement.

  “I’ve never been proud of the killing I’ve done. Even when I was a proud and wicked man, I always felt bad about killing someone. I killed a man once for just spilling my drink. I was paid to fight, and I was willing to do it, but I never celebrated killing anyone.”

  “Was it always a fair fight?”

  “No, not really—it wasn’t. Sometimes, it was practically murder. The man I killed for spilling a drink was no gun fighter. I challenged him in front of all his friends. I was very drunk, but, still, there was no way he was going to get a bullet into me. I wish he hadn’t felt like he had to try. I shamed him into it. He reached for his gun, and I shot him before he ever cleared the holster.”

  Bob looked at him.

  “What about now, Reverend?”

  “Now, I regret every aspect of the life I used to lead.”

  “That’s not what I was enquiring about. What I meant to ask you was this; could you still kill someone if you had to?”

  Wes looked over at Bob.

  “I no longer look for trouble. I try to avoid it and live at peace with all men. If that isn’t possible, I’ll do what I have to do. Sometimes trouble comes looking for you.”

  “Amen, Preacher, it does for a fact!” Bob said.

  I was reminded, for some men; Bob was the trouble that came looking for them.

  Wes looked at me.

  “I’ve been expecting something like this, John,” he said quietly. “They’ll keep coming, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “The wages of sin is death,” I thought.

  30.

  Riding into the rain was like the difference between day and night. It started with just a few giant drops of water popping the dust on both the buggy and the road. Suddenly it was a deluge. Thunder growled and crashed, and lightening flashed and flared. The sound of the rain alone drowned out any hope of further conversation. In the tremendous downpour, Bob and his horse were only a few feet off to my side and they nearly disappeared from my sight.

  We probably traveled a couple of miles before the rain began to soften to a steady downpour. Great sheets and currents of water ran down the road cutting channels and furrows in the surface.

  I felt sorry for our horses. Slipping and sliding, with their ears down, cold rainwater just streaming off them. They plodded on, though, splashing through the mud and the streams of runoff water.

  All three of us humans were pretty well soaked and miserable ourselves. Even in the buggy, there wasn’t much cover, so the rain blew in. When we were going up steep slopes, the buggy offered no protection at all.

  Eventually, we topped out on a ridge and had a partial view of North Fork in its little hanging valley. Seen through the distorting curtains of rain, it looked as though all of the lamps were lit in the town. It looked warm and inviting.

  Coming out of the forest on the outskirts of North Fork, the rain had softened to a heavy mist and the temperature had dropped by at least twenty degrees. The heavy cloud cover and mist made it seem like a perpetual twilight, nearly as dark as full nightfall. It was murky, and everything was softened as though we were in a cloud, which I guess we were. Water was gently dripping off the spruce and aspen trees, the buildings, and pretty much every surface in sight.

  The street wasn’t deserted, though. Several horses and mules stood tied to hitching rails with their heads down. Occasionally, someone could be seen splashing through the mud, hopping over runoff as they crossed the main street.

  “Bob, let’s meet in the barn at the livery stable at about seven o’clock. By then, you may have seen them. If not, you and Wes can start looking for them together or split up, whichever you prefer.”

  “That’s only about an hour from now. Will it give you enough time to look over the house and land?”

  “Yeah, I expect so. We’ll see you then.”

  Wes slapped the reins, and the horse stepped up into a trot. We left Bob walking his horse up the street as we approached the Jubilee House.

  ***

  Even this early in the evening, Tommy Turner’s Jubilee House was well-lit and so were most of the customers we could see through the windows as we went by.

  The place appeared to have plenty of patrons.

  There was loud laughter and hoots and hollers coming from inside. Piano music was being pounded out by a partially-impaired musician battering away on an out-of-tune instrument.

  That noise flowed right into the mix, coming from the two saloons on opposite corners, where we turned left on the lane which eventually led down to the house by the creek.

  The Gold Dust Hotel and Casino had their own piano player hammering away, as did the Oxbow Hotel and Saloon. I noticed much less laughter and no hooting coming from those places. Peering through the windows of the Oxbow, we caught a glimpse of some dancing girls on a stage. We could smell the stink of unwashed bodies, cheap whisky, and tobacco smoke as we went between those buildings. Moments before, we had been enjoying the crisp mountain air, scrubbed clean by the passing storm. From now on, we would enjoy nothing North Fork had to offer.

  We needn’t have worried about being recognized. No one even seemed to notice us passing through. Nearly everyone was inside somewhere drinking, gambling, or just generally carousing. The few people we saw outside were typical hard-working men on their way to or from one of those saloons, or relieving themselves, off the boardwalk right into the street.

  There were no guns in sight. That was Tommy Turner’s policy, and he enforced it. It didn’t mean there were no guns being carried by patrons or others; it just meant there were fewer gun fights in town. I’d seen the high chair where Tommy put his man with a shotgun, to keep everybody honest and peaceable in the Jubilee House. That would be true in the other gambling halls as well. Nobody wanted to cheat, steal, or start trouble with a double-barreled, eight gauge shotgun hovering above them.

  ***

  The lane ended in a wide area with hitching rails and places to park buggies. There was only a single horse tied, and ours was the only buggy, so far this evening.

  There was a picket fence around the house. The front gate had an arbor arch with a sign on it. The sign had fancy flowing script that simply read “Aphrodite’s Bower.”

  The house was quite large, two stories tall with three gables on each side of the roof. There were chimneys at each end. The building was built of wood, whitewashed, and well-lit inside and out. There was no loud music or laughter to be heard.

  Lace curtains covered all the windows.

  We sat in the buggy for a moment and considered the property.

  It was a good two blocks away from the main street of North Fork, and, from here, you could barely hear the racket coming from the bawdy houses.

  The house was flanked by a carriage house and three separate outhouses.

  Somewhere beyond our sight, we could hear the north fork of Bear Creek, cascading over the rocks and rills,

  “This could work as an orphanage, if the town wasn’t so horrible,” Wes observed.

  “Well, that’s about to change. This will be a different place in a few more weeks.”

  Wes nodded.

  “I’d like to see a church built right here on the side of this lane—a big w
hite church with a tall steeple. It would be the first thing you saw when you looked at the town.”

  I could see him visualizing it, as he spread his hands wide.

  “A church would need a preacher,” I said, as I stepped out of the buggy.

  He looked at me and winked.

  “Why, yes it would.” He said.

  ***

  On the porch, we shook off some of the rain water, while we surveyed as much of the land as we could see.

  “There’s plenty of room here for youngsters to play, even enough room for some livestock. They could have a milk cow, chickens, and what not. They could even have a garden,” Wes said.

  “Good grass and water,” I added.

  “She is generous, isn’t she?”

  I knew Wes was referring to Mrs. Poole.

  “More than most people will ever know,” I said.

  I knocked on the front door.

  It was answered by a huge black man.

  When I say huge, I mean he filled the doorway. That man was well over six feet tall and at least three feet wide. His arms were bigger than my legs. He was as dark as I have ever seen any man, which just made his big white smile seem even brighter.

  He was dressed in a tailored suit. When he spoke, his voice made me think of thick smoke rolling across open water.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Ah’m Maximilian Beauregard. Y’all can call me Max. May I see yo invitations?”

  Wes and I looked at each other and then up into Max’s smiling face. “Uh, we don’t have any invitations,” I said.

  Max frowned. It was intimidating.

  Wes and I took an involuntary step back.

  “Ah’m afraid ah’wl hafta ask y’all to leave. This heah establishment is by invitation only.”

  Wes and I looked at each other again.

  “We were invited by Mrs. Poole, but she didn’t give us printed invitations,” I said.

  His smile came back and lit up his whole face.

  “Well, that’s fine then, just fine. Is she expecting y’all?”

  We heard a feminine voice call out. “Who is it, Max?”

  I recognized it as being Mrs. Poole’s voice. Apparently, so did Wes.

  He looked suddenly ill.