Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  “Marshal, beggin’ you pardon, but that killer’s just one man—an evil man for sure, but one who’ll find his own grave pretty fast; they always do. This is bigger, big enough for me to trouble a U.S. Marshal.”

  “It seems to me my duty’s clear—and that’s to stick with the job I have.” I turned to Miss Saint-Jean and said, “Sounds like this town isn’t the best commercial prospect for us.”

  “You, Marshal, in business with the lady?”

  “No, no, no—just advising her. It sounds like she should move along.”

  “And you?”

  “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Gillette. Why are you still here?”

  “The Largo Trading Company boys are free and easy with their money.”

  “I see.”

  “And there’s something else, Mr. Marshal. You look and sound like a gentleman, and you know as well as I do that a gentleman has certain obligations, including helping those in distress. I figured the odds were a bit high for one man to make a difference here. But two?”

  “Two you think is plenty.”

  “Never have fought on a battlefield where I wasn’t outnumbered—not in the war; not in the West. I’m used to it.”

  “Well, Mr. Gillette, I was a soldier too, and sometimes the odds are worse than you think.”

  “Fair enough, Marshal. You’ll be leavin’ then?”

  “That depends on Miss Saint-Jean. Like you, Mr. Gillette, I have a weakness for ladies in distress.”

  “In this case, sir, it is not just the ladies, it is the children.” He bowed slightly, turned to leave, and then added, “And of course there’s the Delingpole treasure—and the murder. I thought, Marshal, you might be investigating that, but apparently not.”

  “No, I’m not. I confess, I hadn’t heard about it.”

  “That’s too bad. Someone should look into it. Justice is a fine word, but too rarely found in this life—or that’s been my experience. Good day, then, Marshal, Miss Saint-Jean.” He tipped his fingers to his hat and closed the door behind him.

  I confess, the treasure interested me but little; and the same was true of the alleged murder—that was business for a real marshal. It was what he said about the women and children that stuck. Miss Saint-Jean and I sat in a rather anguished silence.

  Finally, Miss Saint-Jean said, “First time a professional gambler has made me feel small.”

  “There’s more to him than gambling.”

  “Treasure, for one thing.”

  “Montana’s full of stories like that.”

  “Not quite like that—not a town with a boarded-up school and church; no children; women frightened on the farms; no women in town.”

  “This is the West, Miss Saint-Jean: men without women—nothing to write home about. Not every place is civilized.”

  “Don’t tell me about the West, Armstrong. I know it as well as you do. There’s something wrong here; you know it and I know it.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t know what we can do about it.”

  “And I’m responsible for all those girls—even those Chinamen . . .”

  “I understand. I’ll get the horses.”

  “No, you don’t understand. This is my future—and most likely yours—and theirs. To you that badge is a stage prop; to the gambler, you’re the law.”

  “But I’m not the law.”

  “Yes, you are. You wear a different uniform now, but you’re pursuing justice—isn’t that what you said?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “Don’t my girls deserve justice?”

  “But they have nothing to do with this.”

  “Oh, yes they surely do. There’s not a one of my girls who doesn’t dream of giving up the cancan and settling down with a man and raising children. Anyone in this territory who would rob them of that dream, I take that as a personal affront. And as an officer of the U.S. Cavalry, even in disguise, I expect you should too. And isn’t that what’s happening here?”

  “Is it?”

  “That’s what he said—no children, no families, no women in town, no men at the homesteads; all because of this Largo Trading Company. That’s not right.”

  “Miss Saint-Jean, even if I had a troop of cavalry under my command, what would you expect me to do about it? All we have is the word of a one-eyed Southern card sharp who thinks there’s something peculiar going on—and maybe there is, but that gives me no authority to go charging into battle. There would have to be a proper investigation.”

  “So investigate.”

  “Investigate what?”

  “Well, that treasure for one thing—and he said there was a murder. And what about those Indians with guns? You’re an Indian fighter—isn’t there something there?”

  “I was an Indian fighter; I am no longer; I have never been a treasure hunter; nor am I a real marshal.”

  “The people of this town don’t know that; the Largo Trading Company doesn’t know that; Beauregard Gillette doesn’t know that; and if they don’t know it, why do you have to know it?”

  I paused for a moment. “That, madam, is an excellent point.”

  I confess, Libbie, that I found her logic convincing. You know me: I need duty, a challenge, action to feel alive, and here it was offered to me in the smudged business card of a one-eyed Southern gambler. By Jove, I thought, I would be a fool not to take it: women to rescue; children to save; a treasure to find; a murder to solve.

  “Miss Saint-Jean, no commanding officer ever gave me a more justified rebuke. You’re right, you’re absolutely right. And I’m going to do something about it.”

  I bolted from the parlor and through the front doors—and stopped short on the hotel’s stoop, for there sitting as cool as you please on a bench was Beauregard Gillette.

  I burst out, “My dear man, I have come to my senses. I will of course join you in trying to rid this town of whatever evil has accursed it. And I hasten to add that we are more than two men. I have an entire team of Chinese acrobats at my disposal—including a strong man and a magician. I feel that little can stand in our way.”

  “Well, that’s mighty fine, Marshal. I thought I could count on you. And I reckon with that star you should command.”

  I slapped him on the back. “Beauregard, my good man, I know you said you were a soldier—what was your rank?”

  “Major, First Virginia Cavalry.”

  “The First Virginia—my, my; we may have met on the field of strife—at Gettysburg, perhaps.”

  “And you, sir, a colonel?”

  I winked. “Let’s just say higher than a major.”

  “I assume, sir, that you’ll be wanting to organize your command—your, uh, acrobats and all.”

  “Plenty of time for that later. Let’s fetch our horses and do a little scouting.”

  “My pleasure, sir. I’ve already done a little myself, but tried to be inconspicuous. I’ve ridden up north, past the homesteads. You might find it instructive.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Frankly, what comes next is an embarrassment. Beauregard was silent most of the way, riding slightly ahead of me, and I was so mesmerized by the beautiful, blue, Montana sky, the waving yellow grasslands of the prairie, the lolling stroll of my horse, and the ominous silence of the surprisingly well-maintained homesteads that it took my Confederate comrade to ride up beside me and say soft and low, “Begging your pardon, Marshal; but those Indians following us—they look mighty hostile.”

  “By thunder,” I said, looking around desperately before spotting them several hundred yards to the southeast, “so they do.”

  “They’ve been picking up braves along the way—I reckon that’s bad. If they were Yankee cavalry, they’d charge; expect they might, any minute. Your orders, sir?”

  “My orders, Major, are to hightail it west. Let’s go!”

  Our horses sprinted like greyhounds. Emboldened, the Indians lunged after us, yelping their war cries. I espied a muddy stream bending south. We pounded for it; it su
rely led back to the homesteads; and if there were lonely women there, they’d desperately need our help, with a war party on the loose.

  We kept up a pell-mell sprint for at least a mile; a farmhouse appeared to our southwest. Beauregard glanced back. “Looks like they’re easin’ up, sir. Can’t imagine their horses are blowed; must think we’re not worth it.”

  “Cowards.”

  The farmhouse had a fenced courtyard. Our horses slowed to a walk and ambled through the open gate. The house looked tidy and quite respectable, with a large red barn set off behind. We tied our horses to a hitching rail and mounted the steps to the front door. We didn’t have to knock. Our boots announced us and a woman, blonde and handsome, her hair in a bun and hands concealed in a towel, faced us from the doorway. We removed our hats.

  “He’s not here,” she said.

  “Now who might that be?” I replied with a smile. “Your husband?”

  “You know very well who I mean.”

  “My dear lady, I don’t know you from Eve. Perhaps you know my friend here.”

  “You aren’t any friends of mine, I know that much.” The towel fell from her hands. She had them gripped around a revolver.

  “Now, madam, I want to be plain as day. Neither my friend nor I mean you any harm. In fact, we were pursued here by Indians. Now, don’t fret, they seem to have drawn off. But we thought we ought to warn you.”

  “You came to warn me about Indians? As if they don’t follow your orders.”

  “These Indians, madam, surely don’t. I’ve commanded Crow and Ree scouts before in the army, but . . .”

  “Pardon, me, ma’am, my name is Beauregard Gillette, at your service, and I think I know how to clear up this little misunderstanding. I’m supposing you think we’re affiliated with the Largo Trading Company. But here, ma’am, is my card. And you’ll notice that my companion here is a U.S. Marshal. That’s a marshal’s star he’s wearing.”

  “A marshal?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Beauregard continued. “He’s been trailing a wanted man up through these parts. I told him there might be something bigger, more worthy of his attention here. I’ve been in Bloody Gulch just a short while, but it seems to me there’s something not right.”

  “Come in, gentlemen,” she said, lowering the gun. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “I can help you with that, ma’am,” I said. “Beauregard, you keep a look out for Indians. Don’t let that eyepatch worry you, ma’am. He can see better with one eye than the rest of us can with two.”

  “I’m also quite handy with a coffee pot,” he said. “Marshal, maybe you should keep a lookout. I wouldn’t recognize that man you’ve been hunting.”

  “You both stay here,” she said. “It’s made. I’ll just be a moment.”

  Reckless men that we are, we followed her into the kitchen. It wasn’t coffee that was waiting for us (at least not immediately) but three Indians, dressed in flat-brimmed, large-domed black hats, black pants, and black vests over red-and-white check shirts, open at the neck, though their attire wasn’t the first thing we noticed—that would be their rifles, held waist high, and pointed at us.

  Our hostess gasped and jumped back a little and I caught her, despite Beauregard trying to jostle me aside to do the honors. I wrapped my arms around her for a moment—knowing the comfort you always take from a good strong hug, Libbie—and then with the masculine mastery you so admire I lifted her up and moved her out of the line of fire, which was no small task, because she was rather tall and long-legged, if thin and shaped like an hourglass. I let her gaze into my eyes, thinking it might calm her and give her confidence. I noticed her eyes were as wonderfully sparkling blue as my own.

  “Marshal,” said Beauregard, “I think you should attend to these Indians.”

  With a wistful touch of sadness, I nodded at our hostess and turned my attention to the savages. “Put those rifles down and your hands up,” I said.

  They didn’t move. I got a good look at them. They were big ugly brutes, with craggy red faces better suited to gargoyles. The biggest, oldest, and ugliest said, “No marshals in Bloody Gulch. We handle law here. Give us wanted poster. Provide bounty. We deliver.”

  “I see: bounty hunters. And how did you track me here?”

  “Uh, begging your pardon, Marshal, I think we know the answer to that.” Beauregard nudged me to look out the kitchen window where five mounted Indian warriors, Cheyenne, I thought, were sitting their horses. “Looks like we didn’t lose those Indians after all.”

  The spokesman for the black-clad Indians repeated, “We handle law here. Give us wanted poster. Provide bounty. We deliver.”

  “All right,” I said. “That’s a fair deal, but I don’t have the poster. It’ll be sent to me from Washington. That might take a while. But when I have it, I’ll find you men.”

  “We handle law here. Give us wanted poster. Provide bounty. We deliver.”

  “I’m not sure they understand me.”

  “Wait. I’ve got something that might help,” our hostess said. When she returned, it was with a small portrait of Sam Grant.

  “Why the devil do you have this?”

  “My husband bought it. He was a Union officer.”

  “Well, so was I, and I confess I’ve got one too, but . . .” I handed it to the chief gargoyle. “Here—find that man, and you can keep him.”

  “Bounty?”

  “A thousand dollars—dead or alive.”

  He nodded, clutched the portrait, and led his black-hatted men outside, where they joined their painted comrades and rode off.

  Our hostess said, “I thought you could explain that you are in the service of President Grant. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Well, ma’am, I know of no better use for Sam Grant than as wampum for Indians. That was quite resourceful of you.”

  “Ma’am, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of learning your name,” said my one-eyed, molasses-tongued Confederate.

  “Isabel, Isabel Johnson,” she said.

  “Miss Johnson, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, it’s your father then, ma’am, who is missing.”

  “Well,” she said, and then paused. “Let me get you that coffee.” She extracted two white cups, nice porcelain ones, from the cupboard and handed them to us. She took the coffee pot from the hob and poured.

  “Your father, ma’am?” repeated Beauregard. “Missing?”

  “It depends what you mean by missing. I would call him free.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” I said, stepping between that Southern Lothario and Miss Johnson, “but ‘free’ in what way?”

  “It’s only a rumor,” she said, “but apparently he has escaped the foundry. But I haven’t seen him.”

  “And ‘the foundry’ would be?”

  “I’m sorry, Marshal, I forget that you’re not from these parts. It’s part of the Largo Trading Company. Everyone here knows about it. Most of the menfolk—fathers, husbands—work there. But none of us knows exactly what they do. The men don’t come back.”

  “And the children, ma’am,” said Beauregard, casually elbowing me aside, “we haven’t noticed any children.”

  “They’re at the mine. Everyone knows it exists too, but no one knows exactly what they’re mining, though I reckon it isn’t gold—at least they don’t go splashing gold around the town.”

  “No ma’am, they don’t. Plenty of greenbacks, though.”

  I tapped Beauregard on the shoulder and pointed out the window. With him thus distracted, I was able to sidestep in front of him and resume my interrogation. “So, ma’am, do you mean to say that the Largo Trading Company has the men and children of Bloody Gulch in slave labor?”

  “I’m afraid so, Marshal. Oh, there’s a few shopkeepers they’ve let stay. But mostly yes, we’re all under their thumb.”

  “But how can that be? I mean, surely you didn’t all just submit.”

  “It was submit or die. The Largo Tr
ading Company has its own army—those Indians are part of it. Between the Indians and the company’s white gunmen, peaceable citizens don’t stand a chance.”

  “And you women?”

  “Well, I guess you could say we’re part of ‘the deal.’ The company told our menfolk that we’d be left alone if they didn’t resist. And it’s the boys who are at the mine. The girls are kept as hostages at the old Blake homestead to the west to make sure we don’t try to free our men. They’re used as farmhands, slopping hogs and tending chickens and crops. That’s what we do too—those of us who are full-grown women—we work our farms as best we can. They pay us for the hogs and the apples and all; I guess they think that’ll keep us quiet.”

  I know, Libbie, that most women, like yourself, take pride in your milky white complexions—and with good reason—but to look upon this statuesque golden-haired woman, browned radiantly by the sun, with her blue eyes glimmering like pools of fresh cool water, was to see yet another model of womanly perfection, though lesser of course than your own.

  I was taking a mental note of all this when that blackguard Beauregard again cut in front of me. We had backed Miss Johnson into a corner, and she suggested that we take seats at the dining table.

  “Well, Marshal,” said Beauregard, “I don’t think we can let this stand. Do you?”

  “Miss Johnson, I pledge to you my confederate here—who is actually a real Confederate—and I will not let this stand. Together with my troop of Chinese acrobats we will end the tyranny of the Largo Trading Company.”

  She stared at me as if this was an astonishing assertion, so I continued, “Ma’am, I assure you not only of my sincerity but of my capability. Mr. Gillette was a major in the Confederate service, and I, ma’am . . .” I shot a commanding glance at Beauregard’s exposed eye, “I was a general in the Union service. You could have no finer champions than we.” And then, I’m afraid, I so forgot myself in my passion for justice that I rolled up my right sleeve, exposed my Indian-engraved escutcheon, and flexed my arm so that the words stood out. “You see, Miss Johnson, I was born to ride—ride at the head of a troop of cavalry!”

  “Who is Libbie?”