Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  Looking around him, he thought at first he might have been mistaken when he had assumed the town was indeed settled. There was no living soul in sight. He stepped down from the saddle onto the wagon tracks that served as the main street and stood gazing first north and then south. No one was in sight. Then he reminded himself that he had seen campfires the night before. There had to be people here. He turned to look at the rough building before him. There, beside the door, was a sign that proclaimed the structure was CLAY’S STORE. Tom guessed the lettering was done by the same hand that made the sign on the tree at the edge of town. There was no hitching rail, so he dropped the reins on the ground, knowing Billy wouldn’t go anywhere as long as the reins were down. He was about to step up on the small porch when he was startled by a voice behind him.

  “That there top step is busted. Mind you don’t break your neck on it.”

  He turned to face a slightly built man of perhaps middle age, standing by his travois. He was holding a kettle in his hand. The man smiled at Tom as he casually glanced over the pack of skins on the travois.

  “I reckon you’ll be looking to trade some of them skins for whiskey and flour and tabacky.” He rubbed his bald head as he looked Tom up and down. “That’s about all you mountain men want, whiskey, flour, and tabacky.”

  Tom smiled. “Well, I guess I like a drink about as well as the next man. But I had more in mind trading for some coffee and some beans, if you have any, and some flour and salt…and some grain for my horse…maybe some meat that ain’t wild.”

  The little bald man looked Tom over more carefully, noticing the faded army trousers and the cavalry boots. “You ain’t been trappin long, have you?” He studied Tom’s face carefully. After a moment, he evidently decided that this stranger meant him no harm. “You look like you could use a good cup of coffee right now. Come on in. I was about to make some when you come up.”

  “Mister, that sure is to my liking,” Tom said, accepting the invitation. It had been more than a month since his supply of coffee beans had run out, and the thought of a fresh brewed pot of black coffee was enough to make his mouth water. He followed the little man into the store and watched while he settled the kettle over an iron grill on one side of a huge stone fireplace. Like so many stores in the isolated settlements away from the army’s forts, Clay’s Store served as general store as well as a saloon. Neither man spoke until the kettle was taken care of and the little man stood back to watch it boil.

  “Where’s all the people?” Tom wondered aloud. “From the looks of all the tents, I figured to find some folks about.”

  The little man looked at him, a gleam of amusement in his eye. “Why, hellfire, they’re most likely asleep in their beds, I reckon. It’s just past sunup you know.”

  Tom considered this. “I guess it is a little early. I had no notion of the time.”

  The little man reached into a sack and withdrew a fistful of coffee beans and proceeded to grind them in a small, well-worn coffee mill. Then he poured them into the boiling water and pulled the kettle away from the flames to let the coffee brew. He watched it for a moment longer before turning back to Tom.

  “My names’s Jubal Clay. This here’s my store.” He extended his arm.

  “Tom Allred,” Tom replied, taking the outstretched hand.

  “Well, Mr. Allred, what brings you to Ruby’s Choice?”

  Tom settled himself on a ladder-back chair on one side of the huge fireplace and held his palms out to catch the warmth of the flames. “Well, like you said, I’d like to trade some furs for some supplies. I’ve been up in the hills all winter and I need some things.” He noticed the statement caused Jubal Clay to raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. He was quick to add, “Oh, I’ve got a little bit of money. The furs ain’t all I’ve got to pay with.”

  “How long you been out of the army?”

  “Since September,” Tom replied. The question did not surprise him since he was wearing army trousers and boots.

  “How’d you happen to come to Ruby’s Choice? If it’s for the gold, I’m afraid you’re a bit too late. There’s still some folks finding a little color now and then, but the big stuff is panned out.” He wrapped a rag around the handle to keep from burning his hand and withdrew the kettle from the fireplace. With his free hand, he picked up a cup from the hearth and peered into it. As a precaution, he blew in the cup to make sure it wasn’t full of dust. Then he filled it with the steaming hot liquid and offered it to Tom. “Most of the folks have turned to trapping, them that are still here.”

  Tom sipped from the cup before answering. The coffee was strong and scalding hot, but it was good. “I’m really not heading anywhere in particular. I just stumbled on your little town.” He paused to sip again.

  Jubal Clay studied his visitor intently. “I reckon you could use a hot meal some too, couldn’t you?”

  “I sure could,” Tom responded immediately. Then a thought occurred to him. “First, I reckon I better find out how much this is gonna cost me.” Gold mining towns were notorious for their high prices. The more remote they were, the higher the prices. And not many settlements were more remote than Ruby’s Choice.

  “Hell, man, I’m offering you some breakfast, one neighbor to another. I ain’t looking to charge you nuthin’ for that. Now later on, when we get to bargaining for them pelts you got, then you better watch your backside, ’cause trading is how I make my living.”

  Tom flushed, embarrassed. “I apologize, Mr. Clay, and I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “T’ain’t nuthin’.” Jubal laughed at his guest’s embarrassment. “Ruby’ll be down in a minute, and she’ll fix us some breakfast.”

  This sparked Tom’s interest. “Ruby? Your wife? Is she the one the town’s named for?”

  “Ruby’s my daughter. My missus died three year ago last month—pneumonia. I drove two wagons out here five year ago. I drove one of ’em, my wife drove the other. Sold my dry goods store in Minnesota and headed west to get my share of the gold. Figured on settling in the Black Hills. Trouble was the dang Injuns was murdering every white man they could find there, so we kept north and west to Montana. I bet we tried a hundred little cricks and gullies, looking for some color before we found this place. There was a little color showing here, but I couldn’t decide to stay or move on. Well, the missus was getting awful damn tired of traveling, and she wanted to set down someplace permanent. I still weren’t shore this was the place to set up, couldn’t make up my mind. Ruby was twelve year old then. Finally, I let her choose. “Honey,” I said, “you choose. Do we go or stay?” She said, “We stay.” So we did, and that’s why the town is named Ruby’s Choice.”

  “It’s a silly name for a town, too.”

  The voice came from behind him. Tom turned to see a young girl climbing down from the loft of the building. Her skirt was pulled up almost to her waist to prevent her tripping on the steps, revealing long underwear that disappeared into the tops of her boots. Tom quickly turned his glance away to avoid embarrassment to the lady. It was wasted on the young girl. She seemed in no hurry to shake her skirt back down, standing squarely in front of Tom as she smoothed out a few of the many wrinkles in her dress. According to what her father had told him minutes earlier, she would be about seventeen years of age. She looked older, due no doubt to the hard way of life for all women in this part of the world. She studied him for a brief moment then commented, “Mister, you look like you wintered hard. I reckon you’re half starved, too. Well, I reckon I can throw in a couple more eggs.” There was a genuine hint of irritation in her tone.

  Tom wasn’t especially pleased by her attitude. He knew he looked pretty scruffy, but he didn’t come looking for a handout. He couldn’t help but bristle a bit. “Well, ma’am, I don’t want to put you out. I can pay for my breakfast.”

  Jubal Clay laughed. “Ruby didn’t mean to insult you, young feller.”

  The girl looked into Tom’s face for a moment longer, her expression stern as if she was try
ing to make up her mind. Finally she flashed a wide smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you can pay for your breakfast. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up.” She extended her arm and said, “I’m Ruby Clay and we’d be glad to have you eat with us, no charge.”

  Tom, embarrassed now that he had allowed himself to rankle over a young girl’s remark, took her hand and briefly shook it. “Tom Allred. Thank you for the invitation, and you were right the first time. I am about half starved.”

  He took a longer look at her then. She was pretty in a plain sort of way, at least for Montana territory. She wasn’t exactly St. Louis pretty, maybe not even Kansas City pretty. But, on this spring morning, north and west of the Black Hills, he could not help but notice the depth of her cold blue eyes and the fullness of her lips. Her hair was the color of a new hemp rope, somewhere between the gold of grain in the field and the bark of a cinnamon tree. It struck him that she looked clean, freshly scrubbed almost, a realization that reminded him of his own appearance.

  “I guess I need a bath and a shave about as bad as I need something to eat.”

  “We can heat you up some water. You want to eat first or after?” She paused to hear his answer.

  He rubbed his beard, feeling the growth he had allowed to accumulate. It was tempting to eat first, but he decided it would be better to wait. “Maybe I better clean up first. Maybe you and your pa could stand me a little better. First though, I reckon I ought to feed my horse. I’d like to buy a ration of oats if I can.”

  “Suit youself.” She pointed to a wooden bucket in the corner of the room. “There’s the bucket. You can start carrying water up from the crick. The tub’s in the storeroom. Show him, Pa.”

  He turned and followed Jubal Clay out the door. As he walked out, he asked, “Were you teasing about having some eggs? Have you really got some chickens?”

  Clay answered. “Shore have. And I bet you can’t find another one around here for a hundred miles.” He pointed Tom toward the creek. “You git the water. I’ll feed your horse for you.”

  * * *

  It had been a while. Tom was accustomed to taking baths regularly and shaving every day, a routine instilled by his many years in the military, but it was a routine that had been abandoned over the past winter for practical reasons. He might have frozen to death if he had tried to take a bath. Now, as he lay back and soaked in the large wooden tub, he felt as if he were losing an outer layer of skin. The water, crystal clear when he carried it up from the stream, was now a dingy gray, and his skin felt itchy from scrubbing it with the harsh lye soap. Realizing that his bathwater was rapidly cooling, he decided he had better get his razor and strap and get rid of the whiskers, else he was going to have to shave in cold water. When he was done shaving, he threw the clothes he had been wearing into the tub and scrubbed them a little as well. When he was finished and dressed in a clean pair of trousers and his other shirt, he called out to Jubal Clay to help him carry the tub out to be emptied. For the first time in three months, he felt clean.

  “Well, howdy, stranger.” Ruby Clay paused, a large iron skillet in her hand, taking a long look at their freshly-scrubbed guest. She made no attempt to mask her surprise at the transformation. She stood staring for a moment longer before resuming her breakfast preparations.

  Tom was embarrassed, a fact that was somewhat masked by the flush already present as a result of the harsh soap. Jubal Clay was amused, a twinkle in his eye as he watched his daughter’s reaction when discovering there had been a rather nice-looking young man under the dirt and whiskers and buffalo robe that first walked into the store.

  It was the best breakfast Tom could remember ever having. He wasn’t sure whether it was due to Ruby’s skill with a frying pan or simply because he had been living off little more than thin strips of wild meat for so long. He could have eaten a couple more eggs had they been offered, but he was too polite to ask for them. There was plenty of fried corn mush and baking powder biscuits to fill in the empty spots, however, and Ruby kept the coffee coming. Jubal, who had eaten earlier while Tom was taking his bath, sat back and watched his guest consume the plate of food before him. He seemed pleased by the enthusiasm shown for his daughter’s cooking. When Tom had finished, Ruby stood over him for a moment while she inspected the empty plate.

  “Well, it must not a’been too bad. The plate don’t even need washing.”

  Tom laughed. “It was wonderful,” he said, “the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

  “Is that so?” she answered matter-of-factly, unimpressed by his attempt at flattery. “Well, I don’t reckon it’ll kill you anyway. It ain’t killed Pa yet.” She continued to stare at him as if trying to make up her mind about him.

  “I sure do appreciate it,” he said. Tom was uncomfortable with the young girl’s attitude. She was no more than seventeen, yet she acted as if she was much older than that and treated him as if he was the one who was seventeen. He returned her stare, and their eyes were locked for a few long moments before she finally broke off and took his plate away. Damn, he thought, if I had a horse that looked at me like that, I wouldn’t turn my back on him for fear he might take a chunk out of my backside. He glanced at Jubal, and the little man flashed a warm smile toward him.

  “Don’t let Ruby spook you. She’s been bossing me around since she was fourteen. Matter of fact, she runs this whole town.” His grin expanded to almost touch his ears. “’Sides, I figure she kinda likes you. If she didn’t, damned if she’da scrambled up them eggs for you. She don’t do that for just anybody. Eggs is precious.”

  Tom only grunted in reply. If she kinda liked him, she sure had a funny way of showing it. Besides, he wasn’t sure he cared to have her like him. She was too bossy to suit him. He’d just as soon she liked somebody else. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of two of the town’s citizens.

  “Morning, Red. Morning, Otis,” Jubal greeted the two as they came in the door.

  “Morning, Jubal. Morning, Ruby,” they returned, almost in unison. One of them, a tall, thin man with a shaggy red beard asked, “Bar open yet? It’s most ’bout eight o’clock.” He looked expectantly at the storekeeper, glancing every few seconds at the stranger sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Jubal replied. “It’s close enough to eight.” He got up from the table and walked over to the other end of the store, where a short bar had been built against the far wall. Taking a jar out from under the counter, he poured two glasses half full and set them in front of the two men. He started to return the jar, but paused long enough to look in Tom’s direction. “You want one?”

  “No thanks,” Tom replied. “It’s a little too early in the day for me.” He glanced toward the girl working in the kitchen and caught her watching him intently. She quickly turned back to her work when she met his eye.

  “This here’s Red Tinsley and Otis Watson,” Jubal said. “They got a little claim ’bout a hundred yards down the crick from here. They’re just two more of the folks gettin’ rich outta that crick.”

  Both men snorted at Jubal’s remark, a remark obviously facetious and answered immediately by the man introduced as Otis Watson. “You oughta bite your tongue off, Jubal Clay. The onliest one gettin’ rich offen that crick is you, and you ain’t doing no panning a’tall.”

  Jubal laughed good-naturedly. “Show you my heart’s in the right place, I’m not even gonna charge you for that first drink.”

  Red joined in. “You oughtn’t charge for none of it, this rotgut pizen. When you gonna get some honest-to-God drinking whiskey, anyway?”

  Jubal shrugged his shoulders. “You know as well as I do. Shouldn’t be long though. We ought to have wagons getting through any day now, now that the snows have pretty much gone.”

  Tom watched and listened, amused by what appeared to be a daily visit from the two partners. He had never been one to understand some men’s need to start drinking so early in the day, but if anything was likely to cause it, he guessed wintering in a place
like Ruby’s Choice would do it. He almost laughed out loud as he watched Otis Watson down his whiskey. Otis made a face like it was molten lava he was forcing down, and he gasped for breath for a good thirty seconds after he turned the glass up. It must have been raw frontier whiskey. Jubal probably made it himself. Although it looked like it was killing him, Otis must have had an earnest need for the burning liquid, for as soon as he could find his voice again, he ordered up another. Once, when it seemed he had lost his voice for good, he simply motioned frantically with his hand and Jubal gave him another shot. His partner, Red, matched him shot for shot, but the poison seemed not to sear his tonsils to the same degree that it did Otis. Red simply pulled his lips back in a grimace to expose clenched teeth while he waited for the flame to die out. It took half a dozen shots before their body chemistry was evidently balanced to the point where they could carry on with their normal functions, and after the most important business of the day was taken care of, they turned their attention to the stranger just introduced to them.

  “What you say your name was?” Otis asked.

  “Tom Allred.”

  Otis nodded and paused as if to think this over. “What brings you to Ruby’s Choice? You in the army?”

  “I was. I’m not now. I’m just passing through.”

  Red spoke up. “Was you wintering east of here?” When Tom nodded that he was, Red continued, “See any sign? We ain’t heard much about any Injun trouble since the fall. We been lucky up this way so far, but you never can tell, what with spring here and all.”

  “I didn’t see sign of any kind this winter. I can tell you this, though, Sitting Bull’s band of Sioux was pretty much whipped last summer at Wagon Box, and the army will be rounding up stray bands of Sioux and Cheyenne this spring and sending them back to the reservations. The last word I heard was that Sitting Bull and a few of his chiefs escaped to Canada. So any trouble you get would probably be from small raiding parties that the army hasn’t been able to run down yet. I wouldn’t suspect we’ll see another Indian war like the one that killed Custer.”