“My answer is still going to be no, unless you have another train of horses all carrying whiskey. So, unless you do, I don’t expect you’ve got enough for it to be worth my while to lose my flatboat.” Porter grimaced. He didn’t want to share any whiskey with the man now, but they were getting some amount of hospitality, so he felt he still had to be accommodating.
9. Signs
The land was downright inhospitable. It baked you in the day and froze you in the evening. The wind slapped you in the face and spit dust in your gaping mouth. Dealing with the insulting weather, Shaw lost the trail, though he didn’t admit it to his men for more than an hour. He made like he was hunting for shelter from the threatening gusts. Truth be told he lost the sign when the parties, Porter’s and whomever he was trailing, went over some slick rock. On a good day, you could still track a man judging by the dust left near invisible, but in this storm and dim light that wasn’t happening.
“Boss? What do you think?” asked Matty.
Shaw tipped his hat and stared at the horizon. “They gotta be heading to the river, but how they’ll get off this mesa without doubling back is beyond me.”
“You saying, we should wait them out?”
Shaw was kneeling, examining what may or may not have been a hoofprint in the shifting sands. “Maybe. That would be safer than walking into a trap. But, I don’t think Porter is with friends at all. Whoever he is trailing after is a murderer too, and maybe they’ll bust heads before we find ‘em.”
“That would be safest, Boss.”
“Yep, horses are safest in the corral, but that isn’t what horses are for, is it?”
“Boss?”
Shaw stood, directing the posse to keep going due south. “Our aim isn’t to be safe. We got to bring some justice to this land.”
They rode on, doing their damndest to ignore the pelting sand and the dryness of their tongues. When they came to the wide gorge they knew they were in trouble. It was late afternoon and they were no closer to the water. The red canyons held the teasing river at the bottom of a very high drop. Sunlight sprinkled across the dazzling brown surface, and the thirsty men’s mouths salivated for that freshness.
In the near distance, they could see the beginnings of the Elk Valley opening. Maybe, just maybe Shaw could even see a wisp of smoke rising from just a little farther around the bend. They were so close and yet so far.
“Where could they have gone, Boss?”
“See that smoke? They are less than a mile from where we are now.”
“How are we gonna get there, Boss?”
Shaw looked about. There was no possible route down from where they stood other than the sure death of straight down drop.
“They made it down, we must find their trail. Let’s keep going.”
They rode along the cliffs until they saw a lower spot of sage brush-covered hills gently lowering to the river. They couldn’t make it down to those soft hills from where they were at all, the cliffs were still far too high, but Shaw figured they had to double back and find the beginning of a gulch or ravine that fed into the back of the egress. This took them another two hours to find and by then it was dusk, but they made it to the river.
“They must have crossed, huh? They just keep getting farther and farther ahead of us, huh?”
“Matty, I’ve had about enough of your observations. Keep it to yourself,” grumbled Shaw. “Someone gather some firewood.”
Shaw knew Porter and his men weren’t on this side of the river, there was nowhere they could hide. This would make a decent enough camp for the evening and they would cross tomorrow.
Then the thought struck him. Porter wasn’t even that far ahead along the opposite side of the river. He had seen the smoke of a campfire just a couple more miles down the river in the valley. Everyone was dog tired and the horses were sweating ‘til salt showed on their flanks but if he got the men to show some gumption and cross, they should be able to overtake Porter in Elk Valley, not far along the bend of the river.
“We are gonna rest, eat some vittles, rub down the horses and cross the river.”
“Boss?”
“Listen, we will catch up the them tonight and take Porter into custody based on the evidence of that befouled little girl.”
“For all we know, he is the one that buried her,” said one of the deputies.
Shaw snarled at him. “I’ll see Porter hang for any reason I can get. Brew up some coffee. We are gonna cross in an hour.”
Matty gulped at the prospect of a river crossing in the dark, especially one so wide as the Colorado, but he sure wasn’t gonna go against Shaw either. “I’m on it, Boss.”
10. A Day Late
Everyone seemed to deliberately avoid the pressing matters of earlier in the day, as they all sat making small talk around the fire pit. The settlers that had originally built the fort had worked to beautify the insides, planting a few small trees, growing flowers, and white washing the interior walls. Fine work had been done on the inside doors and there were even a few glass windows. A wooden parapet ran the entire rectangular distance about the fort at about nine feet in height. There were two steep, ladder-like stairways to climb up. All in all, it was a handsome set-up and Porter wondered at how bad the people who had built it must have felt to abandon it.
“You give any thought on if the folks that built this come back?”
Bill laughed. “Yes, sir. I talked with your Mormon Bishop that built it. He done signed over the rights. Said he wasn’t ever coming back. The Utes killed his son don’t you know? Bad memories here, he said. Between you and me I think he was having a crisis of faith and wasn’t too sure about your golden bible and all its precepts and heeding Brigham’s almighty word anymore.”
“You trying to rile me?”
“No sir, I’m not. I don’t think I’d want to rile the deadly Mormon triggerite that is Porter Rockwell, no sir.”
“Please, don’t,” said Roxy.
“And who might you be miss?” asked Bill.
“I’m Roxy Lejeune, as if that’s any business of yours.”
“Well, it is since you all are staying in my place. I’m just trying to be friendly is all.”
“The hell you say,” muttered Quincy.
Mae Taggart worked to bring the peace. “I know we’ve all had our differences. I too had heard many a bloody tale about Mr. Rockwell back in Missouri, but he is the only man that could have saved me and my daughters from those bloodthirsty bandits. I’m not Mormon, but I believe the Lord uses what he can to bring about good, and you did so much good last week Mr. Rockwell. I’m thankful for you too, Mr. Granstaff, for being here and looking after us.”
“Here, here,” said Porter, taking a swallow of Valley-Tan and passing the bottle around.
“Well I need some sleep,” said Roxy.
“That’s a good idea,” said Porter. “We’re going to need our rest for tomorrow.”
“Hope there’s no hard feeling about the flatboat, but you understand,” said Bill.
Porter just grunted.
Bill held out his hand to finish off the nearly empty bottle of Valley-Tan and Porter reluctantly handed it over.
“I think I’ll sit up a spell and watch the fire die,” said Quincy.
“Suit yourself,” said Porter, as he went to one of the many vacant rooms for some much-needed rest.
Bill and Frenchie stayed too, as the Taggart women also bid their goodnights and retired to the rooms they were using.
Porter was concerned about Quincy staying up with two other men who had been drinking and hadn’t been that kind toward his friend. But, Redbone stayed up too, just off in the shadows so Porter decided he would let it play out and get some rest.
As he drifted off to sleep he was pleased to hear some good-natured laughter from the men.
***
It was cold, it was rough, yet Shaw still pushed his men hard. Once they were across the Colorado, he gave every man and beast a few moments to dry and get their lungs back.
/> “We are doing the right thing, never forget. We push ourselves harder than the enemy so that we might triumph at the last, that these heathen murderer’s will not get away with their sacrilege. Let’s do this.” Shaw led them down the rocky shoreline toward the valley.
“He always talk like that?” asked a deputy.
“Yup,” answered Matty. “His father was a preacher back in New York. When Joe Smith found that gold bible and started proselytizing, he stole most all of pastor Shaw’s flock. You could say he’s got some bitterness ‘bout that, somewhere.”
They rounded the bend in the river, to the valley that stretched out wide. Stars overhead gleamed dully. They hadn’t ridden far when they espied the source of the smoke. A white washed stone fort sat at the top of the slope above the river.
“Who is that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Shaw. “They are aiding and abetting a murderer. We ride in hard, guns out and we capture them alive. Do you understand? You only shoot if you have too. But I want Porter alive. I am gonna see him hang!”
***
Porter was having some surprisingly good dreams when Quincy shook him awake.
“It’s time we get a move on. Redbone is pretty antsy.”
Porter rubbed his eyes. It was still dark out. “Already? Is it almost dawn?” he asked with a yawn.
“Naw it’s probably after midnight, but I talked Bill into selling us the flatboat.”
“Really? What’d you offer him?”
“I traded him a bit of that gold I got from the canyon.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we just gotta hurry. We need to catch that Matamoros bastard.”
“All right, all right. I’m up,” said Porter, still yawning like a lion. “What about Roxy?”
“She’s already up and getting the horses down to the flatboat.”
“Good deal. We sure we didn’t want to wait for breakfast?”
“Hell’s yeah, I’m sure Yankee, let’s get going. Don’t make too much noise though, we don’t want to wake those women folk.”
Porter shrugged and followed his friend out the door and into the moonlit courtyard. The embers in the fire pit still glowed, and gave off a whiff of sweet-smelling smoke in the cool evening. Both Frenchie and Negro Bill were passed out near the fire. Two empty bottles of Valley-Tan lying nearby.
“You give them another of my—,”
“Shhhh,” Quincy insisted.
They went out the front gate of the fort and took a sloping track down to the river. It glistened in the moonlight like a river of diamonds, while the stars above filled the sky with wondrous twinkling lights.
Roxy already had the horses aboard the flatboat with Redbone’s help.
“I’m ready,” she said.
“What’s that?” asked Porter, at a big lump in the center.
“Oh, it’s our supplies and things. Maybe some extra feed for the horses that I found in the barn.”
“What barn? Did you buy that from Bill?”
“We traded,” she said, rather sheepishly.
“For what?”
“Your Valley-Tan.”
“How many?”
“All of them. You need to stay sober on this journey.”
“Damnit woman! NO! I want my Valley-Tan!” he shouted, loud enough to wake the dead from the very grip of the grave.
“Quiet!” insisted Quincy. “Help us shove off.”
“Something ain’t right,” grumbled Porter. “I need those.”
“No, you don’t,” said Roxy, raising her voice.
“Yes, I do!” he shouted again.
There was some yelling and cursing from up the slope in the fort.
“Great! You woke them up.”
“So what? You two stole my hooch.”
Quincy said, “We need the flatboat. We gotta hurry, help us push off!”
“I’m guessing there was no square deal done here. After all I wasn’t consulted about my whiskey! Does Bill even know you came up with this trade? He seemed awful unwilling just a few hours ago.”
“He’ll get over it,” said Quincy, putting his whole back into pushing the flatboat off the shoreline. Redbone helped him but the craft still wasn’t moving. “Help us, Yankee!”
“I-want-my-whiskey.”
“Hold on,” said Roxy. She mounted her horse and kicked its flanks driving it off the flatboat and back toward the fort.
With the sudden decrease in weight, Redbone and Quincy moved the raft a few inches more into the river.
“This would be a whole lot easier with your help,” said Quincy.
“I want my whiskey,” insisted Porter.
“You’re being a child, you know that? A damn child!”
“A child who wants his whiskey!”
The shouting grew louder and Roxy was suddenly riding back from the fort. Bill and Frenchie were on her heels, shouting and cursing.
She rode the horse right up onto the flatboat and leapt off, hugging two bottles of Valley-Tan. “Here is your damn whiskey, now help us get out of here!”
Port glanced back toward the fort and saw Bill and a half-dressed Frenchie running toward them. “They seem a might upset, but you’re right we ought to go.” He threw his shoulder into helping push the flatboat, and then it was a few feet out into the river. He leapt aboard as did Quincy and Redbone. Roxy had a pole and was pushing them farther out to catch the current as Bill and Frenchie reached the shoreline.
Frenchie had the longer legs and reached the shoreline first. He strode out into the water til he was hip-deep saying, “C'estnotre bateau.” He grasped one end of the flatboat, but was kicked for his troubles by Redbone. He fell back in the cold water gasping and sullenly went back to shore.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Porter.
The flatboat was only a dozen strides out into the river, but it was just far enough that Bill didn’t dare go in after it. “That’s my flatboat! You stole it! Damn you Mormons!”
“I’m not Mormon,” shouted Quincy, with a laugh.
Bill hollered, “Oh, I forgot, you’re just a Mormon’s Uncle Tom!”
Quincy was almost mad enough to jump in the river to go after Bill, but Roxy held him back.
Porter called out, “Sorry, Bill. I think we were both misled about this trade.”
“What trade? You son of a bitch?”
“You got my whiskey didn’t ya?”
“No. The woman took the only two bottles I had.”
Porter ignored Bill and frowned at Roxy.
She blushed. “I left him all of it, but when I went back, I only saw these two, so I brought them for you. I don’t know what happened to the rest.”
The flatboat was now almost to the middle of the river and the current had her cruising at a good speed.
“Bye Bill,” shouted Porter. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“The hell you say!” Bill shouted. Then the river took them around the bend and they were out of earshot.
11. A Dollar Short
Shaw led the charge, the thunder of hooves thumped hard against the sandy ground like war drums. They rounded the front of the fort which faced away from the river. The doors were wide open. Racing inside they had their guns drawn, ready for trouble.
“Where is everybody?” shouted a deputy.
“Look inside, careful like. Remember we want them alive!” shouted Shaw. “Porter? You in there? You best come out peaceful like.”
A blonde woman appeared at one of the doors in her nightgown. “What’s going on? Who are you?”
“Where is Porter?” barked Shaw, barely keeping his excited horse under control.
The frightened woman backed away into her dark room.
“You best answer me. I’m territorial Marshal Brody Shaw.”
“What do you want with Mr. Rockwell?” the woman asked, a little more defiantly than Shaw would have liked.
“He is a murderer. I’m aiming to bring him to justice. Where is he?”
“I
don’t know. I thought he was sleeping in the courtyard.” She composed herself and said thoughtfully, “But you’re wrong about Mr. Rockwell. He is no murderer. He is a hero. He saved me and my girls from that slaver, Matamoros.”
Shaw snorted at her answer.
“Ask my girls they will tell you. He singlehandedly killed nine of those desperadoes to save us and a dozen Indian women and children from God knows what fate.”
“He ain’t no hero,” argued Shaw.
Now she became truly defiant, stepping out of her door with her hands on her hips and her words sharp as slander. “Oh really? Let me tell you something Marshal Shaw. Porter came by himself and saved us from the men that killed my husband and violated me and my daughters. Where were you? Where was the U.S. Army? Nowhere to be found. I’ll take the heroes you call outlaws any day, and if you don’t like you and yours can just go to hell!”
Shaw was taken aback by her rebuke and let his horse step back a pace from the scorned woman.
“Boss, we got some men out here heading back from down by the river,” called Matty from the fort entrance.
“Watch her,” said Shaw to one of his deputies then he wheeled his mount about to go out and see to the men, Matty spoke of.
***
Bill and Frenchie were trudging back up to the fort, but froze upon seeing the half dozen men on horseback at their very door. “Dog my cats, who the hell is that, now?”
Frenchie didn’t have time to answer before the riders charged right at them. “Stay right there! Who are you? Talk fast!”
They weren’t shooting yet, so Bill stood his ground. “I’m Bill Granstaff and this is Frenchie. Who are you all?”
A tall rider pushed through his men’s horses. “I’m Brody Shaw, territorial Marshal.”
“Then I’d like to report a crime.”
“Oh?”
“Yes sir, those polecats just now stole my flatboat and are escaping down the river with it.”
“Who would that be? I wonder?”
Bill furrowed his brow at Shaw’s rude mannerism. “Well, I believe its Orrin Porter Rockwell, a woman calling herself Roxy Lejeune, and a colored man name of Quincy Jackson. They came here on good faith and then stole from me when I said I wouldn’t sell them that flatboat.”
CRAZY HORSES: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 2) Page 5