Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  “Oh, oh, oh,” he said, suddenly flustered, “is that so? Well, I suppose there shouldn’t be a problem then. We’ve always been on very good terms with the Trading Company. If you’ll just sign the ledger, sir,” he said, dipping a pen in ink.

  “What language?” said the Indian. “In French, Guillaume Jacques; in Spanish, Guillermo Jack; in English . . .”

  “English is fine, if you please.”

  I looked over his shoulder and saw him sign Billy Jack Crow. He saw me and said, “My name with the pony soldiers. We are at war again, are we not?”

  I told you I liked Crow scouts.

  We carried his trunk up to my room and had a proper military discussion. Billy Jack had apparently come to Bloody Gulch along the same route we had. He had seen sentries high on the hills. He had waved to them and they had waved back. We both reckoned they thought he was coming with guns for the Largo Trading Company, which he said had a powerful name among the Indians, especially the Sioux and the Cheyenne; he considered it an enemy.

  “Well, Billy Jack, I’m forming an army, as I guess you’ve reckoned. We’re taking on the Largo Trading Company. You’re in, if you want to be.”

  “I am prepared for war.”

  “Good. I’m making you a sergeant of scouts. From now on, you’re Sergeant Bill Crow. You’ll meet our troops in due course.”

  He picked up the picture of Grant. I had placed it face down on the dresser, but I guess he was curious.

  “You work for President Grant?”

  “I have, worse luck—but not now. His son was on my staff—or Sheridan’s actually—and served under me. I liked the boy. As for his father . . .”

  “Good man,” he said, “good Republican.”

  “Well, sorry to separate you two,” I said, plucking the picture from his hands, “but he’s not mine, thank goodness. I need to return him. I’ll be back later. You stand guard here.”

  “Yes. Stand guard—and read.” He reached into the trunk, extracting a book.

  “What’s that?”

  “Catechism. Everything I need to know is here—or so the priest says.”

  “There, and in Army regulations,” I said, closing the door behind me.

  I rode to Isabel Johnson’s farm and knocked on the door. It opened to a smile as white as the stripe on a skunk’s tail, only the scent was distinctly that of blueberries.

  “Why, Marshal,” Isabel said, wiping her hands on her apron, “this is a pleasant surprise. Why, I was just baking a blueberry pie. Major Gillette is quite partial to blueberries.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the only thing he’s quite partial to. I just thought, ma’am, that I ought to return your picture of Sam Grant. Those Indian bounty hunters kindly returned it to me.”

  “Well that’s very thoughtful of you, Marshal. Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’d love some, ma’am, if it’s no trouble. Also, I have an invitation for you. There’s a show in town tonight. If you’d like to see it, I’d gladly escort you.”

  “A show? Oh, you mean the dancing girls.”

  “Not just dancing girls, ma’am—a magician, a strongman . . . though maybe not as strong as some,” I said, winking, “and acrobats, sword-wielding Chinese acrobats. I’ve helped train them with sabers, having been in the cavalry and all.”

  “Well, Marshal, I don’t know . . .”

  “Come now, there’s nothing like the theatre to lift one’s spirits. And anyway, you deserve it for billeting Beauregard.”

  “Oh, he’s earning his keep, Marshal. He’s out there now repairing some fences for me.”

  “Wonderful, then let’s have coffee. I’ve got some matters I’d like to discuss with you.”

  We sat at her breakfast table, with its red and white checkerboard tablecloth, fresh butter in a dish, and fine porcelain cups with strong black coffee fit for a soldier.

  “So, ma’am, I hate to trouble you with questions, but those Indians who were here, the ones who claimed to be bounty hunters…”

  “They’re not bounty hunters—not like you think of them.”

  “I know—they work for the Largo Trading Company—but who commands them?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, but it could be Seth Larsen; he runs the company, and he’s a cruel, vicious man.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s been here for as long as I can remember. The company too. But at first it didn’t seem so bad.”

  “You cook good coffee, ma’am,” I said. I didn’t mean to be distracted by it, but it really was powerfully good; maybe not as good as yours, Libbie, or the coffee that old Eliza used to make for us, but second best. Then I added, “What changed—about the company, I mean?”

  “It was sudden—or maybe I just didn’t notice until they forced me to notice; until they started taking the men and the children, and closed the church and the school.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  “Almost a year ago; right after the harvest. Before that there was some trouble too. There was a big landowner, an Englishman with a funny name, Jack Delingpole; he was sort of a town benefactor. He paid for the building of the school, though he had no kids of his own, and of the church, where he acted as a lay preacher. He had a big spread north of here. The foundry and the mine are up there too. The Trading Company said he had no right to the land, that the government had set it aside for the Indians. There was a big to-do because the Englishman claimed to have a title and all that. The Company said the title was a fraud. The Englishman said he was going to get the law on his side, but before he could do that, the Indians strung him up by his heels, skinned him alive, and burned him to death. Some folks claim they heard his screams—they were that loud and horrible—but they were too frightened to help. Then the Company took the land and gave it to the Indians—or so they say. I’ve heard tell that Larsen often lives there—Delingpole built a sort of mansion. I’ve never seen it, but that’s the rumor; and of course Larsen runs the foundry and the mine.”

  “So, Delingpull was murdered and his property stolen?”

  “Delingpole, Marshal; but yes, there should have been a trial; the Englishman was murdered. The Trading Company said the Englishman got what he deserved; that he stole that property from the Indians. There were always Indians here, it being a trading post and all, but more arrived all the time; and they got organized by the Company. Some people got worried right away. I guess they were the smart ones.”

  Her skin, usually sun-kissed a rosy brown, was looking a little whiter with despair, and I decided to change the subject to something happier. “About my invitation for tonight?”

  “But it’ll be full of Largo Trading Company men, won’t it?”

  “I guess that’s the way things are around here—but I’ll be there; no need to fret, Isabel—I can call you Isabel, can’t I?”

  “Oh, yes, surely.”

  “They’ll be no trouble, ma’am; not with me as your escort.”

  “All right, then. I’ll come.”

  “Good.”

  “And Major Gillette?”

  “At your service, ma’am.” That Southron was as crafty as Mosby. He had an uncanny way of turning up unbidden, leaning on a door jamb, exerting his self-regarding charm. “Fence is nailed solid. Thought I smelled coffee—and blueberries—and the marshal.”

  “Marshal Armstrong has just invited me to the show in town tonight. Would you like to come?”

  “Well that’s right neighborly of you, Miss Johnson; and I accept. You might need a guardian in a crowd like that.”

  “Marshal Armstrong assures me it’s quite theatrical.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is—quite theatrical. Honored to attend in your company, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be escorting Isabel.”

  “That so, Marshal; is that what brings you here?”

  “Just returning Miss Johnson’s property,” I motioned to Grant, who was back on the mantelpiece.

  “I heard
tell he had a rough time, old General Grant—mighty rough time with some Indians.”

  “He’s been promoted to president, you know.”

  “Ah, well, Yankee General, sir, there are some political developments best left ignored.”

  “Where’d you hear about the Indians?”

  “I’ve got an instinct for self-preservation—and even in a town as locked down as this one, word travels plenty fast. Way I heard it, you and an Indian in a bowler hat shot down three Indians of the Largo Trading Company. You should know, people here are mighty scared about what happens next.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “I’ve been extending my card, as a gentleman should, to the neighboring farm folk.”

  “I see: a regular knight errant to ladies in distress.”

  “Why of course, sir.”

  I was about to say something more when I glanced in Isabel’s direction—as I often did when she was near—and saw fear in her big blue eyes. I knew I needed to comfort her.

  “Beauregard, you’re a soldier. You know that fear is an enemy—and that boldness in the face of the enemy is a strength. The Largo Trading Company has now seen strength—strength it hasn’t seen in a very long time; strength behind a badge. The people shouldn’t be scared; the Company should be.”

  “Yup, I reckon I’d be quaking in my boots if I had a big business, big money, a big army, and a little town under my thumb, and I had to face you. I’d be plumb scared, wouldn’t I?”

  “You, Beauregard, are a special case. You’re used to trouble; they’re not; they try to avoid it.”

  “Yankee General, sir, anybody who does what they do—whatever it is—isn’t afraid of trouble. Take it from me, bad ’uns don’t think that way. I’ve seen too many of ’em.”

  “Beauregard, I’m trying to reassure Isabel that she has nothing to fear.”

  “Well, she doesn’t—as long as I’m around; I know how to deal with the bad ’uns. Good thing you’ll have me along tonight.” He shifted his eyepatch for emphasis.

  “Major Gillette, I’ve forgotten myself, would you like some coffee?”

  “Would love some, ma’am; and since we’re all getting down to a first-name basis, why don’t you call me Beauregard.”

  I’ll be darned if she didn’t smile at that. “Major,” I said, subtly shifting the tone, “I think perhaps we should have a council of war tonight, before the evening’s performance.”

  “Yankee General, sir, you give the orders, and I obey.”

  “Let’s meet at the hotel at six. The show is at eight. That will give us plenty of time to dine and to talk.”

  “Well, since Miss Isabel will be our guest—I defer to you, ma’am; would six o’clock be agreeable with you?”

  “That’s fine by me—and you, uh, Beauregard?”

  “As you wish, ma’am.” He turned to me. “And, Yankee General, sir, will you be escorting Miss Saint-Jean to dinner, or Miss, uh, or Miss, uh, well, there are so many I hardly know all their names.”

  “No, thank you, Major, I shall have the honor of dining with Miss Johnson, Isabel—and you—alone.”

  “We are honored, sir.”

  “Well, then,” I said, tipping my hat to Miss Johnson, and looking again at how those white teeth lit up her sun-kissed face. It was such a dazzling display—though nothing on your own gleaming smile, Libbie—that it almost kept me from scowling at Major Gillette. “I shall see you tonight, Isabel. Until then,” I took Miss Johnson’s hand and kissed it in the gallant French fashion. Then I nodded at Gillette. “Major.”

  “Oh, no kisses necessary for me, General, sir,” said the blackguard, saluting.

  I returned the salute and strode out of the breakfast parlor, out the front door, and silently cursed that Southern Lothario. I untied my horse and he nuzzled me. Horses and dogs I can always count on—and you, of course, Libbie dear.

  Our plates were gone and we were polishing off the coffee.

  As the three of us were alone in the hotel dining room—the Company men took their meals in the saloon when they were in town—Beauregard, though all charm and flattery with Miss Johnson, did not hesitate to pass along intelligence as well.

  “I’ve made a few rides out from the farm.”

  “Yes, I know, Major. You mentioned the local ladies in distress.”

  “Yankee General, sir, I mean no disrespect to the ladies when I say those visits were in the service of a greater cause. It surely looked less suspicious if, when I surveyed our general environs, my rides were punctuated with calls on the fair sex.”

  “I see; very clever, Major.”

  “I’m surprised your wagons made it here in the first place—or that I did, for that matter. They’ve got Indian patrols covering the most likely entrances into town. I located the so-called foundry—it’s northeast of here—and the mine is northwest; they bracket the canyon where Delingpole lived. They both look like mines to me; the foundry just has a 12-inch Napoleon parked outside. I reckon I know what they’re digging for too: ‘Delingpole’s treasure.’ That’s the rumor anyway.”

  “Dueling Pool’s treasure?”

  “Delingpole, sir; Miss Isabel mentioned him—the town benefactor. He used to mint his own coins—gold, so nobody complained. Interesting hobby. I reckon they’re looking for where he got that gold. As Miss Isabel said, Largo Trading Company’s not throwin’ gold around. They trade in greenbacks.”

  “Find anything else?”

  “The Blake homestead where the young girls are held is due west, not far. I didn’t spot any guards. The Company men just seemed to doze on the terrace. A commander like you, with Chinese acrobats at his disposal, could take it in a trice.”

  “Sword-wielding Chinese acrobats.”

  “To be sure. But before we free the children, we’ll need a safe place for them.”

  “The acrobats?”

  “No, I was thinking of the children, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I have an idea for that. But for now the primary issue is how to hit each position—the Blake homestead, the mine, and the foundry—with thunderclap surprise. Once we know how to liberate the hostages, we can formulate escape plans, probably to Fort Ellis or Fort Shaw.”

  “You know, General, if we could get word to the cavalry—I expect those forts have cavalry—it would even up the odds somethin’ fierce.”

  “And what would we tell them: children in mines; men in a foundry that might really be a mine; a private army; people living in fear. Would you believe that story?”

  “Wouldn’t need to—just ride in with your marshal’s badge and tell ’em what you’ve seen: Indians armed with Winchesters, apparently from the Largo Trading Company. Don’t you think they’d come running mighty fast to investigate? I reckon they would.”

  “I do too,” said Miss Johnson; and such is my devotion to duty that I have to confess that I had nearly forgotten she was there. But now that I was reminded, I looked into those glittering blue eyes of hers and saw such tremendous depth and understanding that I paused for a long while to reflect on what she had said.

  Beauregard broke the silence by saying, “Uh, begging the general’s pardon . . .”

  “Yes, what is it? I’m thinking.”

  “About getting word to the Yankee cavalry?”

  “No, no, no, I can’t do that; I can’t leave Isabel in danger.”

  “I’ll be here, Yankee General, sir.”

  “Precisely—and look here, I’m no messenger boy.”

  “No, sir, but as a marshal . . .”

  “As a marshal, I should send my deputy.”

  “You’re not referring to me, sir?”

  “No, I’ll send Billy Jack Crow; they’ll trust him.”

  Beauregard shifted his eyepatch from one eye to the other, and Miss Johnson said, “Who is Billy Jack Crow?”

  “Oh, sorry—forgot I hadn’t mentioned him. He’s an Indian, guarding my room against inquisitive Largo men; former Army scout; saved my life toda
y in a gunfight.”

  “The secrets you keep, General. So that’s the Indian I heard tell about,” said Beauregard.

  “Yes: hates the Sioux, hates the Cheyenne, distrusts the Largo Trading Company; could be a good man. I reckon we’re done here—let’s go upstairs. I’ll introduce you before the show.”

  I led them up the red-carpeted stairs, which matched the red, velvet, flocked wallpaper of the stairwell, to the third floor and my room. I knocked on the door. “Sergeant Bill Crow? It’s me, Marshal Armstrong, open the door.”

  We heard the key twist in the lock, and the door drifted open. Billy didn’t even look up; he was reading a book.

  “Catechism?” I said.

  “Caesar, Conquest of Gaul. Three roads lead into Gaul, much like Bloody Gulch, leading to the Belgae, Aquitani, and the Celts—the three Gallic tribes; much like the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Crow.”

  “Quite so. Sergeant, I’d like you to meet my second in command, Major Gillette, and Miss Isabel Johnson.” Scouts don’t salute much, but Billy Jack saluted the major, who returned his salute, and he bowed to Miss Johnson. I put that to his credit

  “We’re going to see our army on stage,” I said. “I think it prudent, however, to keep you here on guard duty.”

  “Yes, sir: read Caesar; keep watch; learn more.”

  “Can’t complain about a sergeant reading Caesar, can we, Major?”

  “No, sir, I reckon not.”

  “Might help you on a mission we have in mind; we’d like to get a message out to the pony soldiers.”

  Billy Jack looked dubious. “Largo Company guards let me in; might not let me out; they have a noose around this town; if I try to leave, the noose will tighten; they know I’m with you.”

  “Cavalry can break a noose.”

  “A noose can break a man’s neck before that happens.”

  “You’re not afraid, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir, only informed. From your hotel window I can see the street. Largo Trading Company men were excited today. Someone or something is coming. Also, this,” he said, picking up an envelope that lay on his trunk. “I found it slipped under your door. Can only be bad news: smells of skunk.”

  I held it to my nose. “That would be perfume, Sergeant.”