The Searcher

by Len Levinson

  Sometimes the small towns were best. The people treated a man better. They didn’t try to take every penny he had, as in the big towns. The only problem was that small towns seldom had dancing girls.

  Stone could see the town more distinctly now. A few ramshackle buildings surrounded the light, and that’s all there was. It didn’t look like a town at all. It didn’t even look like a settlement. His heart sank as his dreams of luxury evaporated. It looked more like a stagecoach stop than a town.

  The closer he came, the worse it looked. The buildings were shacks, leaning in all directions. Fences were in need of repair, and a spotted dog ran out from behind a barn, yapping away. The light he’d seen was coming from one window, and a saddled horse was hitched to the rail.

  Stone rode toward the light and dismounted. Throwing his reins over the rail, he walked toward the front door. He opened it and found himself in a small room. A husky man in his thirties sat on a chair, drinking whiskey. In the corner a cowboy sat behind a glass of whiskey, his face covered by the brim of his hat.

  The man near the door looked up at Stone and smiled. “What can I do for you, friend?”

  “This a hotel?”

  “It’s a hotel, stable, restaurant, saloon, and anythin’ else you might need.”

  “Where can I put my horses?”

  “In the barn across the way. You’ll find grain in the barrel near the door. Want supper?”

  “Please.”

  “It’ll be on the table when you git back.”

  Stone walked out of the building and climbed onto his horse, riding it into the barn, the three other horses behind him. He put them in stalls and was removing the saddle from his horse when he heard the door close in the building across the way.

  Peering into the darkness, he saw the lone cowboy walk unsteadily toward the horse at the rail. The cowboy’s hat was low over his eyes, and he mounted up and rode away.

  Stone brought grain and water to his horses, then rubbed them down with the old worn brush he carried around. Satisfied that he’d done everything necessary for the horses, he strolled out of the barn and headed for that hot meal, carrying the saddlebags containing the six thousand dollars over his shoulder.

  He walked across the yard and entered the main building. The aroma of roast pork assailed his nostrils. He looked to the table where the proprietor sat alone, saw a jug of whiskey and plates covered with food.

  Stone pushed his hat back and sat at the table. Reaching for the jug, he filled a glass with whiskey. He raised it to his lips and drank it down. It set him on fire. He coughed a few times and his face turned red.

  The proprietor grinned, and most of his teeth were missing. He had a glass eye that stared off in its own direction. Hoisting his whiskey, he drank it like water.

  “What’s yer name?” he asked.

  “John Stone.”

  “I’m Mike Mingo.”

  They shook hands. Mingo looked at Stone’s cavalry hat.

  “That yers, or did you steal it?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “What outfit were you with?”

  “Hampton Brigade.”

  Mingo moved his leg out from underneath the table, and it was a pegleg. “Lost it at Chickahominy. I was movin’ forward with the Eleventh Alabama when the Yankees found our range with their cannons.”

  Stone stood, pulled up his shirt, and showed the long ugly scar underneath his left rib. “Gettysburg.”

  Mingo nodded. Stone sat down and resumed eating.

  “What brings you out here?” Mingo asked.

  Stone reached into his pocket and took out the picture of Marie. “I’m looking for her.”

  Mingo stared at the picture with his one good eye. “She’s a helluva good lookin’ woman. Yer wife?”

  “We were engaged to be married. Ever see her?”

  “Would’ve remembered if I had. What happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. What brings you out here?”

  “Wanted to get away from the carpetbaggers.”

  “I was surprised when I arrived, because I thought Fair-hope would be a big town since it’s on the map.”

  “Fairhope is a big town. Did you think this was Fair-hope? This is Mingo, named after me. I’m the mayor, the alderman, and the sole citizen, ’cept for the missus. It ain’t on the map at all. We don’t even have a post office. That’s in Fairhope.”

  “Where’s Fairhope?”

  “About ten miles thataway.” He pointed in the direction

  Stone had been heading, and Stone realized his compass had been correct.

  “I supply local ranches and farms with whatever they can’t make or grow themselves, or don’t feel like ridin’ all the way into Fairhope for,” Mingo explained, “and sometimes I get pilgrims like you on the way to Fairhope from Rendale. That’s where yer comin’ from, right? You get a look at that cowboy who was here when you arrived?”

  “No.”

  “He sure seemed to recognize you. We was talkin’ before you arrived, but as soon as you walked in the door, he got real quiet, and when you left he couldn’t get out the door fast enough.”

  Stone recalled the cowboy hiding his face behind the brim of his hat. “What’s his name?”

  “Saunders.”

  Stone shrugged. “Don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “He rides for the Rafter K.”

  Stone’s hand froze in the air. “Did you say the Rafter K?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “They have a ranch around here?”

  “Their only ranch is around here.”

  “How’d you like to buy three horses, cheap?”

  “Depends on what you call cheap.”

  “Let’s go take a look at them.”

  “What’s yer hurry?”

  “I had a run-in with the boys from the Rafter K once.”

  “You best be on yer way. They’re a bad crowd once they get likkered.” Mingo raised himself and rested his hand on his wooden cane. “I’ll git the money.”

  “You haven’t seen the horses.”

  “I’d trust any man who rode for Wade Hampton.”

  Mingo hobbled toward a door, and Stone wolfed down his food. For all he knew, the cowboys from the Rafter K might be on their way at that moment. He rose, blew out the lantern, and pressed his back to the side of the window, drawing his Colts and looking outside.

  It was pitch black, and he couldn’t even see the stable across the way. He wished he’d ridden straight by and cursed himself for his love of whiskey, good food, and clean sheets.

  Mingo returned to the room. “What happened to the light?”

  “Safety precaution.”

  Mingo dropped some coins on the table. “Here’s a hundred and twenty dollars for the three horses.”

  “They’re not worth that much.”

  “Take the money and ride, you damned fool. Don’t you know that the Rafter K is an outlaw outfit?”

  Stone pocketed the money and slipped out the door, moving silently toward the barn. When he got inside, he stopped, listened, then saddled his horse.

  “Sorry to disturb your rest,” Stone told the animal, “but we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  He threw the saddlebags over the horse’s back and climbed into the saddle. Touching the spurs to the horse’s flanks, the horse moved toward the door. Stone held the reins with his left hand and drew a Colt with his right. If the men from the Rafter K were out there, he wanted to shoot first.

  He reached the door of the barn and spurred the horse again. The horse jumped forward and galloped across the yard, heading south toward the open range, and the wind whistled past Stone’s ears.

  Stone couldn’t go to Fairhope, because that’s what Dillon would expect. All he could do was travel by night away from populated places and sleep during the day until he was far from the Rafter K range.

  At least he’d eaten half a meal and drunk some whiskey. He wanted to light a cigarette, but that might
give him away to cowboys from the Rafter K. For all he knew, he might be riding directly toward them.

  He’d have to be careful, stay off main trails, and follow his compass. It would’ve been so nice to sit in that shack and shoot the breeze with Mingo. He and Mingo had been in the war together, and Stone felt most comfortable with men who were veterans of the front lines.

  Now he was alone on the prairie again, but the men from the Rafter K were hunting him. His horse moved across the grass, and Stone peered ahead into the blackness. Now he was glad the moon wasn’t out.

  He rode into the night and at one in the morning, heard cattle in the distance; he swerved to avoid them. An hour later he heard more cattle and again altered his direction.

  He came to a stream, loosened the cinch on the horse, and let it drink. Then he lay on the ground and closed his eyes. He and the horse rested a while, then he tightened the cinch again and climbed into the saddle.

  They continued in a southwesterly direction. As dawn approached he looked for a campsite, but visibility was so poor he couldn’t see much. Finally he came to some bushes and trees and decided that’d be the place. He picketed his horse deep in the foliage, removed the saddle, and anchored it against a tree. Then he lay down and closed his eyes. A faint pink tinge was on the horizon as the dawn began to break.

  He awakened in the late afternoon because the sun shone directly onto his face. Sitting up, he saw the skeleton of a man twenty feet in front of him in the middle of the clearing. He stared at the skeleton for a few moments, then rose and walked toward it.

  The skeleton lay on its back, its hollow eyes staring blankly at the sky. An old brown arrow, bent by time, lay among the ribs. It wore no clothes or anything else. The Indians had taken everything.

  Stone kneeled beside the skeleton and lit a cigarette. He wondered who he was and what mad dream he’d been following when the Indians shot the arrow into his heart. He’d probably been scalped and mutilated, too. Stone wanted to get moving but knew he should stay hidden until dark.

  He moved his saddle and belongings to a spot where he couldn’t see the skeleton and finished his cigarette. Then he visited his horse and moved him to where there was more grass.

  Stone sat on the ground and looked at his map. Fairhope was behind him now, but there was another town named Beverly about forty miles away in the direction of where he hoped to intersect the wagon train.

  He doubted that the men from the Rafter K would go that far to catch him. Maybe he could get the clean bed, bath, and good meal that he craved.

  Stone saddled his horse when it was dark and set out again, this time heading for Beverly. He rode all night, slept the next day in a cave cut into a butte, and had traveled half the night when he came to the top of a hill and saw below him a scattering of lights twinkling and sparkling in the midst of an enormous open range.

  His mouth watered as he thought of a steak dinner and good whiskey. He could stay in the best hotel in town with all the money he had. He hoped the cowboys from the Rafter K weren’t in town but didn’t feel like hiding anymore. He’d slept on the ground enough.

  The town came closer, and he could see it was no Mingo. Buildings two and three stories high were spread over several blocks, and the downtown area glowed brightly. The buildings were painted and in good repair. Stone rode onto the main street of Beverly, looking for the hotel.

  He passed private homes and businesses closed for the night, then came to the downtown area. There were three noisy saloons and one boxy hotel with a sign in front that said: BEVERLY HOTEL. The stable was next door, and he rode inside, dismounting, throwing the two sets of saddlebags over his shoulder. A young man in a floppy hat came out of the shadows, carrying a lantern.

  “I’ll take ’im,” he said, grasping the horse’s reins. “Where you comin’ in from?”

  “Mingo.”

  “How’s old Mike?”

  “Seemed like his leg was bothering him.”

  “That’s what I thought last time I saw him. God damn Yankees. I see you were in the war, too.”

  “Hampton Brigade.”

  “Fifth Mississippi.”

  They saluted each other, not with regulation salutes but rather the casual greeting of two old soldiers in a barn at night on the frontier.

  “Cowboys from the Rafter K come to Beverly often?”

  “Not too often.”

  “I’ll be staying across the street at the hotel. If you see any riders from the Rafter K, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. I had a run-in with them a while back, and they might try to kill me.” Stone took out a coin and tossed it to the man.

  The man tossed it back. “Keep yer money, pardner. Pay when you leave. What’s yer name?”

  “John Stone.”

  “Chip Flanagan.”

  “You got dancing girls in this town?”

  “The Gold Dust Saloon.”

  Stone walked across the street to the Beverly Hotel, a big, wooden, planked box with windows. It had no veranda, and Stone passed directly from the boardwalk through the door and into the lobby, where a man with a long, curved, black mustache and his hair parted in the middle leaned on the counter and read a newspaper. In the far corner, a man in a suit lay sprawled on a chair and snored like a foghorn.

  “Room for the night,” Stone said to the man behind the counter. “Can I get a bath?”

  The man winked. “You can get anything at all you want.”

  “I’d like to take a bath.”

  “I’ll have one prepared for you. Anything else?” He leaned forward and said softly, “Women?”

  “No thank you.”

  Stone took the key and climbed the stairs to his room on the second floor. He opened the door and entered a small room with a bed, washstand, thick heavy dresser, closet, and chair. He dropped the saddlebags onto the floor and walked to the window, looking to the street. He could see men coming and going from the saloons, some accompanied by women. A drunken cowboy on a horse rode by, and the cowboy was so loose in the saddle he was barely hanging on.

  Stone sat on the chair and rolled a cigarette. The walls were plain unpainted wood and carried no pictures, and the bed was large enough for two. Stone stared longingly at the bed. He hadn’t slept in a bed for nearly a month.

  There was a knock on the door. He yanked a Colt, pulled the doorknob, and saw an old black woman in a bandanna. “Yer bath is ready, sir.”

  Stone handed her a coin, placed his hat on the bedpost, and carried his saddlebags down the hall to the bathroom. He undressed, climbed into the tub, and closed his eyes.

  Deep fatigue came over him as the hot water soaked into his skin and warmed the marrow of his bones. His joints relaxed, and he breathed in the steam rising from the water. He could feel the dirt and filth, sweat and dust, fall away from his body.

  It reminded him of before the war, when he took a hot bath every day, and sometimes twice a day. He hadn’t realized at the time that he’d been living like a prince in a castle, but now that he was a vagabond on the frontier, he understood.

  Servants had done whatever he asked. It amused him to order grown adults around when he’d been a small boy, but his mother smacked him when she found out about it and told him to stop. All he did was play. When he became older, his life revolved around hunting, drinking, and parties. It had been idyllic, and the most beautiful girl in the county had been in love with him.

  He thought of Marie wearing one of her ball gowns, a ribbon in her hair, dancing across the floor, her arms held out gracefully. No one had ever made him feel as alive as she. That’s why he needed her. He felt like half a man without her.

  He finished the bath, put on clean clothes, and carried the saddlebags down the hall to his room. He sat on the chair and smoked another cigarette. He’d intended to go to a saloon, but fatigue had caught up with him. His eyes were heavy-lidded and there was a dull ache in his shoulders. It was around two in the morning, and he thought he should go to bed.

  There was
a knock on the door. He rose, pulled out a Colt, and opened the door quickly.

  A young woman not more than twenty stood there in a low-cut purple gown. Her hair was straight and jet black, and she was five feet five. She reached into her purse and came out with a bottle of whiskey. “Care for a drink?”

  Stone looked at the bottle and thought a drink would help him sleep. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  She entered his room and sat on the bed, crossing her legs, producing two glasses from her purse. She handed him one, then filled both glasses with dark amber whiskey.

  “Down the hatch,” she said.

  They both drank whiskey, and it was the usual rotgut made in somebody’s barn. Stone looked at her, and her legs were showing up to her knees. Her eyes were almond-shaped and her mouth a rosebud.

  “Where you from?” she asked.

  “South Carolina.”

  “I’m from Maine. Gets real cold in Maine. Want to go to bed?”

  “No thank you.”

  She was surprised. “Don’t think I’m pretty?”

  “I’m engaged to get married.”

  “I been married twice and got three kids, but what’s that got to do with it?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  She stood and reached to her side, unfastening a button. Then she unfastened another button, tossing her head wantonly. She unfastened the next, and Stone stared in astonishment as her dress peeled away.

  She wore nothing underneath, and her body was a perfect flowing of curves and hollows with milky white skin, and her breasts round and ripe-looking. He hadn’t seen a naked woman since he last saw Marie, and the animal inside him felt lust. He rose from the chair and looked at her, wanting to take her in his arms.

  She smiled and walked toward him, reaching out, and he took a step back. Laughing, she rushed toward him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly against her.

  She wore an exotic French perfume, and it made him dizzy. She raised her face to him and pursed her lips.