West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  The counterman is wrapping them when I turn to see two fellas with copper badges standing at the entry, scanning the room. Seeing I'm the only man in the place, they walk my way.

  "You the fella clubbed that bearded hooligan down outside?" the one in front asks.

  "Yes, sir," I say, "he was a scoundrel, an ex-killer from the ranks of Bloody Bill Anderson, and he had a hand on his weapon. That prison across the way would be a fine place for the likes of him." I'm doing my best not to sound like a butternut man.

  "And you know that how?" he asks and I see Madam Allenthorpe and Pearl hurrying across the room.

  "Hold on there, gentlemen," the madam calls out, and the fellas turn and snatch their hats off as she approaches. "This young man is in my employ just for occasions such as this. That brute outside laid his hands on my lady's maid. I don't imagine that kind of conduct is approved of here in Kansas City?"

  "No, ma'am. That fella is at the sawbones getting a few stitches in his noggin, and had to be carried there, but it sounds well deserved."

  "What's your name, sir?" she asks.

  "Dan Haycox, City Marshal, ma'am."

  "Well, Mr. Haycox, we appreciate and thank you for your following up on his attack. I'd suggest you hold him for awhile—"

  "He's on the steamboat Bold Eagle. He'll be leaving town with the dawn."

  "As are we, so I'd appreciate your holding him."

  "We'll fine him a dollar for disturbing the peace, ma'am, but we'll be happy to see him go. Seems like your man here can handle him just fine, should the occasion arise again."

  The madam's tone hardens. "He should not have to handle him, should you do your job."

  "I'm doing just that, ma'am, seeing he gets out of our town as quickly as possible, and it seems that's aboard the Bold Eagle."

  "Humph," she manages. "Thank you, none the less," and spins on her heel and goes back to shopping.

  Marshal Haycox turns back to me. "What's your name, for my report?"

  "Nolan, Nolan Byrne, come down this way from Cairo, Illinois." I'm beginning to be able to lie a little too easily for my taste. My sweet mama would not approve.

  "Well, Mr. Byrne, I presume you're on the Bold Eagle as well."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then make sure you're aboard and paddle on up river with her."

  "Yes, sir."

  I turn back to the counterman and hand him a twenty dollar gold piece. He gives me my twelve dollars and twenty-five cents change, in silver as I've requested, and I head across the room where the ladies are working their way through bolts of cloth. Soon they've carried a pair of them to the counter man who cuts yardage and we're ready to head out.

  "Mr. Byrne," the madam says as we exit onto the boardwalk, "I noticed a saddler down the block. I presume he does all sorts of leather work. I'd be happy to purchase a contraption for your firearm so you don't have to carry it stuffed in your belt. Something like that Skunk fella had on."

  "Yes, ma'am. A holster I presume you mean."

  "Yes, a holster. Then we should find a restaurant and I'll treat us all to something besides boat food."

  "As you wish, ma'am," I say. A holster and belt is at least a dollar, and I hope she doesn't mean to take it out of my pay, but either way, I'll be in need of one.

  With a fine new brown leather two-belt holster and matching belt with a cap and ball box, I'm following the ladies into O'Hoolihan's Chop House.

  I see no more of Skunk nor the Swedes and deposit the ladies back on board and to their rooms just after darkness falls.

  She does not take the cost of the belt and holster from my two dollars pay, so I'm richer by far than when I went ashore.

  But I've made a very bad enemy. I can only hope he's too injured to find his way back onboard the Bold Eagle.

  We don't want her to be known as the Bloody Eagle.

  Deciding I could use a bit of Who Hit John to clear my throat, I head for the gentlemen’s lounge. And as soon as I lean on the walnut bar, I glance over, and the two owlhoots glaring at me look to be anything but gentlemen.

  There are three tables full of men in addition to those at the bar, but they are paying no attention to anything other than their drinks or their card games. The only one I recognize is the gambler, Chance O’Galliger. He’s watching me with some interest, I presume, as he thinks me an easy mark for his talents. I give him a nod and he touches his hat brim in return, giving me a smile and flashing that gold tooth.

  Then I go back to being glared at from the end of the bar. Wouldn’t do to seem anything but at ease, and ready to fight should need be.

  Chapter 12

  It’s easy to recognize the cockeyed one, Proust I think his name was. The other I remember calling Horse Gas so his name is something like that. And if they aren’t trouble enough, while I’m doing my best not to be the first one to break the stare, up walks a big fully bearded man with a newly knotted head, Silas Jefferson Holland, known as Skunk to those brave enough to call him that.

  I can’t say I’m not surprised to see the drovers as the last I’d heard they were headed out to Dakota, but like me, I presume they decided that skimming across the water beats pounding a dusty trail. I wish they’d found another boat, but as luck would have it…

  It seems I’ve made a half dozen enemies since leaving prison, and half of them are all in one place, ten paces from my current location. I’m at the far end of the bar, and can’t hear what they’re saying, but the two Dakota drovers are laughing in a derogatory manner, and Skunk looks as if his nose is in the rear end of his namesake. Between them and me is Reverend Sterling Hunter and the two Swedish men, Borg and Eckland, as I recall. I do remember them seeming to be disgusted with Skunk's actions on the boardwalk in town, so I hope they have no dog in what may be a coming fight.

  I knock back a couple of fingers of Black Widow whiskey and call for another, watching the three no accounts out of the corner of my eye. As the bartender is pouring, the biggest of the three, Horse Gas, moves away from the bar and rounds the Reverend and the two Swedish fellas and stops just behind my right shoulder. He leans close enough that I can smell his kerosene breath.

  “How you doing there, shoat. McMouth, was it.”

  I turn slowly and give him a tight smile. “Byrne, actually…and you’re Horse Gas, right?”

  He’s a half head taller than me and at least forty, maybe fifty, pounds heavier. “You can call me that until you don’t have any teeth to whistle through. Where’s your big ugly friend?”

  “Ian? Probably just outside with his new scattergun ready to cut you in half.”

  He laughs. “Probably in the sack snoring away. Don’t suppose you’d like to step outside and see how you do when your friend is not behind me like some sneak thief.”

  I give him a wide grin. “I believe I’ll stay right here and scorch my tonsils with a little more of this rotgut.”

  “A yellow stripe on your back like was on your trousers—”

  The reverend has been cocking an ear our way, and turns. “Is there some kind of problem here?”

  Gauss laughs. “He ain’t much of a problem. Or he will not be when I get through wit him.”

  And he’s not the only one who’s been watching what’s transpired. Chance O’Galliger rises from his game, his cards folded, and strides over behind Gauss. “Hey, Prussian, you got some problem with my young friend?”

  Horst turns and faces the gambler, who’s as tall but not nearly so thick. “What business be it of yours?” he asks, and he’s not smiling.

  O’Galliger shrugs, then says, “It could be the business of Mr. Marston and Mr. Knox.”

  “Who de hell is dat?” Horst asks, falling back into a fairly thick accent.

  I don’t know where it came from, but O’Galliger raises his hand and he’s palmed a little belly gun, a two barrel affair. “This is both Mr. Marston and Mr. Knox, a Marston-Knox in thirty two caliber, just enough to settle almost any argument. And Mr. Marston and Mr. Knox suggest you re
tire to your end of the bar.”

  “Humph,” Horst manages, but he backs away, then turns and retreats to his friends.

  “Obliged,” I say to O’Galliger. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Mister...?”

  “Nolan Byrne, at your service, Mr. O’Galliger.”

  “You remembered. A good trait in a young man coming up in the world.”

  “Whiskey?” I ask, turning to the bartender.

  “Gin, if you please,” he says, and I order, then remember the reverend and put a hand on his shoulder. “And you, sir?”

  “I’m fine, young man. I don’t partake in more than one or two and I’ve had those. I’ll bid you goodnight. Watch your back. They seem to be chummy with that redleg.”

  “I’ll do just that, reverend. Thanks for your concern.” With that, he excuses himself. Actually I watched him down three, and have no idea what transpired before I arrived.

  “You ready to try your luck at a little poker or faro?” O’Galliger asks.

  I have to laugh and shake my head. “I appreciate your stepping in to my discussion with Gauss, but I’m no gambler.” Then I wonder, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in teaching me.”

  “Sure enough. You can learn as we play.”

  Again I shake my head. “No sir, I’d be happy to pay you to teach me. What time do you rise in the morning?”

  “My nights are long, so mid-morning.”

  “How about I meet you just after lunch and pay you a half dollar for a couple of hours of lessons?”

  He laughs. “A Baton Rouge gambler would be a fool to teach all his tricks.”

  “Not all, but just enough so I know the game and more so know if I’m being cheated.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “You’re a nice enough young fella. Remind me of myself not too many years ago. Join me at lunch, then we’ll see if you’ve got any talent.”

  We talk about our backgrounds, him being a Southern man from Baton Rouge and all, while sipping our drinks, then he decides he’d better get back to his game. He asks me, “Are you about ready to leave?”

  “I am.”

  “Then do so while I can make sure those soggers don’t follow you with evil intent.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Against one, maybe even two, but three?”

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, and accept his offer.

  I give Ian a wave as I pass him on the engine deck on my way to my bedroll, as he glances up from feeding four foot lengths into the fire box, and we’ve got another day behind us.

  A few enemies, but another day.

  The next three days are uneventful, staying clear of Skunk, Horst, and the other German, who’s name I’ve asked about and who turns out to be Cornel Proust. It seems the German boys loaded a prize bull aboard at Kansas City, a white face bull I’m told is named Brutus. And rightfully so, as he is a brute. I should have seen the Dakota drovers as the bull is stabled right up against my mules, but it seems we were passing like proverbial side wheelers in the night.

  Captain Johanson has taken to laying up on shore every night, as there hasn’t been much of a moon and the river is particularly full of logs and probably snags. So we’re able to graze the stock, whichever of us is not working. We’ve crossed into Nebraska and tomorrow we lay up at Omaha, the Nebraska territorial capitol, where Ian may be leaving us. I hope not as he’s like an older brother to me. He’s been spending more and more time following Madam Allenthorpe around like a puppy. She seems amused by him, but I fear for his sake that’s the extent of her interest. Pearl has delivered my money belt, made of some cotton material with a tie in the back and two wide, tightly buttoned, pockets in front. And as promised, I’ve given her shooting lessons off the bow of the boat.

  We’ve dodged a hundred snags, a number of floating obstacles and flanked more than one obstruction, called rafts by the river men, but seem to me to actually be islands covered with timber, trees, and driftwood. Some of them a half mile long. We see fewer and fewer boats as we go farther upriver. Where we were passing other side wheelers, keelboats, mackinaws and lots of smaller flatboats and dugouts, the latter all making way downriver as they’re built, floated, then dismantled when reaching their destination. Now it’s just a few of the latter smaller vessels.

  A notice has been posted on a bulletin board just outside the main salon door. There’s to be a concert this evening as a special treat. I’m not surprised to see that Madam Allenthorpe will treat us to several favorites, but am surprised to see she’ll be accompanied by her protégé, or so the posting says, Miss Pearl Allenthorpe. Pearly, a songstress? I’ve heard her sing many an old Southern spiritual, but as a field hand not as an entertainer. The girl seems a long way from the cotton fields of McTavish Farm. Truthfully, I’m pleased for her. I hope she doesn’t make a fool of herself. Of course with a hundred or more men in the crowd, they’d probably be pleased if she just stood there and batted her big brown eyes.

  It’s Ian’s night on the fireboxes as Captain Johanson has decided there’s enough moonlight, and the river seems less congested, so we can move on upriver to Omaha.

  He’ll miss the concert. But I won’t.

  Supper is the last of the oysters, a couple of dozen sage hens killed last evening while we were moored, and a side of pork roasted whole. I’m going to miss this boat and her meals when I’m making my own way somewhere in the Dakota wilds.

  After supper the main salon is cleared and tables stacked aside, chairs lined up like a theater, and doors opened to the men’s smoking room and bar. The piano forte is carried in and to my great surprise, Pearly takes the seat at the keys. She’s only playing cords, but Madam Allenthorpe seems pleased as she takes up the Battle Hymn of the Republic. She laughs as soon as she’s finished as she’s overwhelmed with requests for Dixie, and complies.

  With that out of the way, she goes on to Tarry With Me, Go Down Moses, then Chance O’Galliger takes over the piano forte and Pearl joins in a duet of Maryland My Maryland…and I’m astounded as the crowd stands and gives them a long and exuberant ovation. It seems Pearl’s long experience singing while she and her family worked the fields may pay off for her, particularly now that it appears she’s getting some training by a true professional. The fact is, she sings like an angel, and nearly as well as Angel Allenthorpe.

  By the numbers cheering either Dixie or the Battle Hymn in the raucous crowd, it’s plain to me that there are more Southern boys than bluebellys onboard. And I can’t help but make note of the fact they are applauding and cheering a black woman. Maybe we are west of the war, and slavery, and it’s all rapidly disappearing in our wake.

  Listening to her has given me pause to think back on my family and the happy life we had on the river…and on our relationship with Emanuel, Pearl’s daddy, and his offspring. That happiness, and the resultant furor of the war, is still confusing to me. I hope it’s behind us. I hope I can become friends with Ray, Pearl’s brother, who I grew up beside. I truly hope we all prosper, although it seems Ray hopes I rot in hell. I’ve only seen him across the deck a few times, and he’s never acknowledged my existence. I guess I understand that, but it’s hard to swallow, but maybe even harder for Ray.

  I’ve been circling the Germans and Skunk every day, avoiding a confrontation with them, but if we make this whole trip without tangling I’ll be surprised. They don’t seem to be the type to let things drop. After as much lead as whistled around me during the war, I’d hate to bleed out while on my way to make my mark on the world…but I’ll run from no man. My daddy oft times told me that a man shot in the back will have a hard time making his way through the pearly gates. Christ faced his fate head on, and Daddy said any real man would follow his great example.

  I have, however, made two new friends. The two Swedes are good fellas and I’ve decided not to hold their prior association with Skunk against them. Sometimes you get taken in by folks and they didn’t lay down with that d
og long enough to get fleas.

  Omaha seems a fine city, at least from the view of the river. On a bluff overlooking all is a three story affair with a fine bell tower that I’m told is the Territory Capitol building.

  Ian says his goodbyes to all of us, and I swear I see a tear in the big man's eye. I'm sad to see him walk down the gangway, waving over his shoulder.

  Madam Allenthorpe again employs me to be their escort and I’m pleased to do so. This time I’m well heeled with a fine holster for my Colt. It’s my night on the boilers and they haven’t been mucked for three days, as we continued to run the river with a full moon, so I’m sure I’m in for a hell of an evening. I should be sleeping, but can’t turn down the two dollars.

  It’s mid-morning by the time the ladies are ready to take on the mercantile and general stores of Omaha and noon by the time we’ve visited two mercantiles, a general store, and an apothecary. My stomach is flapping by the time Madam Allenthorpe suggests we go to the Grand Boston Hotel and enjoy some lunch.

  It’s a little higher up the bluff and climbing there I suddenly realize that for the last few miles along the river we’ve seen no trees. There are more trees planted in Omaha than I’ve seen for miles on the river. And from my vantage point in the restaurant of the Grand Boston, I see no trees on the landscape in any direction. I hope there are some trees in Dakota and Washington Territory.

  What I have seen is a few Indians, for the first time. I don’t know what tribe these might represent, and it’s only been a couple of braves and a handful of women and children, and them on the hillside three hundred yards from the hotel where they have teepees that seem to be wrapped in buffalo hides. Obviously they are not hostiles, as they are ignored by the populace.

  We have a fine meal of Sand Hill Crane with all the trimmings and are returning to the boat when I ask to be given a few minutes in the Mercantile. I noticed a second-hand W. J. King of London coach gun there. Its stock and fore grip are scarred and she shows some wear but there are no dents in her metal and she seems to function well—both hammers are tight and she breaks and closes without a waiver. So I fork out the four dollars for it and another dollar for two pounds each of bird shot and buckshot. I have plenty of powder and can use almost anything for wadding. She has short eighteen inch barrels and I imagine she will cut a wide swath at a dozen paces or so. Now, with my Sharps for long work, my Colt for backup, and the King should I have to clear a wide path, I should be trouble on the hoof.