by R. W. Stone
“Hank’s group,” I answered. I swear my heart stopped beating for a full minute.
The guard relaxed a mite and lowered the Winchester. “All right, take the left fork, and keep on for a half mile. Take you straight into camp.”
“Keep your powder dry,” I said, nodding to him as I rode by. Once out of hearing range, I added: “You son of a bitch.”
By now I was sure I was in the right place, but who this Hank fellow might be was anybody’s guess. I didn’t remember any posters out on anyone with that first name. At least not locally. But whoever he was, it now seemed apparent that Hank must be one of the leaders of the gang that had kidnapped those women.
The canyon beyond the pass opened up into a green pasture that made for good grazing. Scattered along the way were small cattle herds that I knew had to have been rustled.
About a half an hour later, I came to a sign that was carved into the shape of an arrow. Across the front in painted dirty white letters it read: broken willow camp. At the end of the path was a huddle of a place. It was a hodgepodge mixture of log cabins, ramshackle false storefronts, and a collection of Sibley tents.
Sibleys were old army tents that sort of resembled Indian tepees because of a cowl that was built over a central pole. This allowed smoke and heat to escape out the top. The tents stood about twelve feet high and about eighteen feet in diameter, and in a pinch they could house about a dozen men. As I rode by, I saw that some of them had been sewn together to make more room for tables, cots, and the like. My horse’s hoofs kicked up small dust swirls as I made my way slowly along the main street.
There weren’t many bystanders around, but the few men that were lingering outside all eyed me suspiciously. I couldn’t help but notice that, as I passed by, one of them hurried back inside one of the larger wooden structures. It had letters on the side of the building written in crooked whitewash that read saloon.
I continued on to what passed for the camp’s livery. It was a large barn built of unevenly cut wooden planks with a small branch-and-cut-log corral off to the right. Out front there was a short fat man with a gray beard who was shoveling hay into a broken-down, three-wheeled wagon.
“Can I leave my horse and mule here?” I asked.
“Naw,” the man replied. “I built this barn exclusively for the personal use of the Grand Duke of Russia and his royal family.”
I actually smiled at his sarcasm. “Well, I ain’t royalty, but I do pay with cash.”
“Might make an exception. You staying long?” he asked.
I looked at him without answering. In these parts it was rather uncommon to be questioned by a stranger.
“Don’t intend to winter here, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I finally replied. “If you gotta know, I intend to stay just long enough to let the dust settle. You got a problem with that?”
The man took a small step back and raised his palms up. “No. No problem at all, mister. Just trying to figure the livestock’s rations.”
“Right. Sure you are,” I replied with obvious disbelief. “Just see to it my horse and mule get their fair share.” As an afterthought I added: “And remember, I’ll be back to check on them. Anyone goes near my horse or the mule and his pack, I’ll cut off his fingers, one by one. Understood?”
The liveryman nodded rapidly. “Sure. Like I said, no problem.”
I debated for a moment and decided to leave the rifle in its scabbard. In spite of past experiences, I doubted I’d be doing much long-distance shooting here in town. Lugging it around would create too many problems. I reached in my pocket and tossed the man a coin. My stomach growled. “Where can I get something to eat around here?” I asked.
The liveryman pointed to a long tent about halfway up the street on the left. I unbuttoned my jacket, took a look around, and then headed over to the place he’d indicated. When I got to the food tent, I noticed a small blackboard nailed to a pole. In chalk letters it read:
today’s special. same as yesterday and the day before that. stew—75¢. take it or leave.
“Better be damn good stew at that price,” I muttered to myself, even though I sincerely doubted it would be.
I sat down at the end of a long wooden table. Ten or so men were already lined up on both sides of the table, eating their lunch. Actually, shoveling their lunch would be a more accurate description of what they were doing at the time.
An attractive but rather heavyset middle-aged woman came over and handed me a bowl. I took a clean handkerchief from my pocket and wiped it down. The woman looked at me suspiciously. “Fussy, are we?” She appeared to be about forty-five years old or so and wore an apron over a discolored and tattered calico dress. Although I couldn’t be positive, I felt sure she didn’t fit any of the descriptions I’d been given of the women taken from the train.
“No offense, miss,” I replied, “just like to flavor my own food.”
The woman went back to the rear of the tent and ladled out some nondescript stew into the bowl. I thought I recognized a carrot and maybe a wild onion, but I was probably being overly optimistic. I leaned over and sniffed the bowl. My nose wrinkled, and I swear it made my eyes water. Suddenly I wasn’t as sure as I was before I sat down that I was really all that hungry.
“Ketchup’s over at the end of the table,” she said, pointing with the ladle.
I tried to summon a smile. “Thanks, miss. That’ll be fine.”
One of the other men snickered as she left. “‘Miss,’ he says. Catch that?”
The man off to his right laughed and leaned over toward me. “Hell, Swagger Hips ain’t been a ‘miss’ since Christ was crucified.”
I nodded my head. “Still, it’s never a good idea to upset the person who’s serving your meal. Food may be bad enough as it is, but you never know what else might be added if you’re rude to the help.”
The two men stopped chuckling and glanced down at their bowls suspiciously. I smiled to myself, but I’d recognized her nickname. I’d read about her several times in the past. Instead of being some middle-aged woman kidnapped and forced into servitude in this outlaw town, Swagger Hips Sally was actually one of them. She had a list of crimes going back twenty years, including prostitution, stabbing at least two men, and for running con-artist rings in at least three states. Sally must have had quite a fall to end up dishing out stew in a place like Broken Willow.
When she was younger, the word was she was a real looker. One of Swagger Hips Sally’s most famous routines was to set up a shop in some big city like Denver and then wait for married men to come in. She would flirt with each of the men until one of them took her up on the offer. She would then retire with the mark being conned to a previously arranged hotel room. Then, when they were in that perfect and most compromising of positions, her jealous husband would suddenly barge in and demand satisfaction.
To the not-so-innocent victim’s relief, satisfaction meant money to pay off the supposedly offended husband. In other words, pay and the big angry jealous man will go away. The threat in effect was that, if you didn’t pay her husband what he demanded, he would not only beat you up, but would also spill the beans to your wife about the whole affair.
Almost always the mark chose to pay up, and it was rumored that Sally had amassed a small fortune over a very long time. Of course, all good things come to an end, and from what they tell me, she eventually tried to con a private detective who had rather good boxing skills. I don’t know for sure exactly what finally became of the man who pretended to be her husband, but from what they tell me, it wasn’t very pretty.
As it turned out, the stew really did need ketchup to help get it down. After lunch I lit a cigar and nonchalantly surveyed my surroundings. It wasn’t really that large a camp or even all that crowded, but considering my position, the numbers didn’t have to be very big. I was here all by my lonesome, with nobody to turn to for help. Not in this pl
ace.
I pulled my jacket collar up and starting walking down what passed for a street. The first few cabins were spaced about ten to twenty yards apart and were mostly of single-story log construction. I didn’t notice any activity around the cabins, so I continued on toward the large two-story building I had noticed when I rode in.
There was a long rectangular sign over the front doorway with hand carved letters that read: the watering hole. I smiled when I read the sign. It stood to reason that in a place like this, the biggest building in town would be the saloon. Around the sides and out back of the bar were several large tents with their flaps down. I could only imagine what sordid activities they were intended for.
In the Beadle pocket novels that have become so popular, the local saloon always has those big batwing doors that swing open and music is always playing loudly from within. Whoever built this place must not have known how to read, because this entrance had a large, single solid-wood door, and I heard no music coming from inside. I took a slow, deep breath, opened the door, and went in.
Almost as soon as I entered the place, I had a pistol shoved in the back of my head and was escorted over to a table in the corner. Two men were seated there. One was tall with brown hair and a thin mustache. He appeared to be between fifty and sixty years of age and had a small scar on his left cheek. He wore a long cotton coat, a black flat-brimmed hat, and a brace of Remington pistols, butts forward in cross-draw, Slim Jim holsters.
The other man was more widely built, had black hair, and seemed to me to be in his mid-fifties. He was clean-shaven and wore his hat ten-gallon style with a large red bandanna tied around his neck. I couldn’t help but notice he looked at me with a slight sideways bend to his head, looking up more with his right eye, as if he had a pain in his side. It seemed as if his head was glued to his left shoulder. At his waist he had on a wide cartridge belt, and in one of those smaller cutdown holsters, he carried one of the newer Colt Single Action Army pistols called Peacemakers.
This particular pistol was probably a .45-caliber five-inch model, but it had been fancied up with nickel plating and staghorn grips. I remember at the time wondering whom he had stolen it from.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” I asked. I tried to sound as calm and collected as was possible under the circumstances. I knew there was an outside chance that I might have been recognized but doubted it. While it’s true that a man in my line of work can develop a reputation, I always worked alone, and most of the men I went after were either dead or had been put away for a very long time.
I realized that even outlaws have friends, and it was possible that some of my prisoners had described me to others. I really didn’t think that was the case here. I hadn’t said, done, or given away anything specifically to single me out. No, this was more likely going to be a we’re-the-bosses-here talk or maybe a just-who-the-hell-are-you inquisition. As it turned out, it was a little of both.
“My name is Henry Clayton Thompson,” the taller, thinner man with the Remingtons said first. “My associate here”—he gestured toward the other man—“is Royce Dunbar. We run Broken Willow, and we are both a mite, shall we say, particular about who we want settling here.”
“Or who we allow to visit,” the other more muscular man said. “So just who are you, and what gives you the right to ride the pass?”
I was prepared for this, and after the appropriate amount of respectful hesitation, I fumbled around in my pants pocket for a folded and weathered piece of paper. I handed it to the one who had identified himself as Henry Thompson. I assumed this was the man called Hank I had heard about. He unfolded the paper, read it, and showed it to the other man. “Robbery and murder,” he said loud enough so those around the table could hear. “Wells Fargo. Very impressive.”
I stood there, expressionless.
Hank handed me back the paper. “Broken Willow has high standards and a reputation to uphold.” I was a little puzzled, until he added: “I think you’ll fit in fine.” He motioned to the man who held the gun to my back. “That’ll do … He’s all right.” I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Turning to the bartender, Royce added: “Pour this man a beer. First one’s always on the house.” The cynic in me assumed that this was because the rest of the drinks would be twice what you’d pay anywhere else.
“Thanks,” I offered. “Had a tough time getting here, but if what they say is true about this place, I just might stay a while. By the way, just where does one stay while here in town?”
“End of the street opposite the big cabin marked ‘Armory and Hardware’ is a row of tents,” Hank explained. “You can rent one from Curly Avery. He usually hangs around the store playing checkers with the manager. Can’t miss him …”
“Because of his hair?” I interrupted.
Royce laughed. “You’d think so, but no. His lack of it.”
I nodded back at him. “Got it.” Looking around the saloon, I noticed three women serving tables. There were supposed to be four, but these three fit the descriptions of the women from the train. Even so, I’d still have to make sure.
“Didn’t expect to find such attractive women here,” I commented.
Hank looked over at them and smiled. “You know, when a man gets older, he begins to think about leaving something behind to remember him by.”
“That so?” I said, puzzled by the remark.
“Yep. Ya see, someday this here’s going to be a big town, and I want to be remembered by it. And for that we’ll need women to help build it. Having some ladies in a town makes men want to stay, and things seem more civilized when there’s womenfolk around.” I nodded, trying to appear as understanding as possible.
“What you see around here, well … this is just the beginning. We intend to grow this place up right. Royce is the town sheriff, and I, of course, am the duly appointed mayor of Broken Willow.”
‘Duly appointed?’ The way Hank talked, I was surprised he hadn’t named the place Hanksville.
I looked up at the second floor of the saloon. “So, the rooms up there, are they available for … female entertainment?”
Hank Thompson looked uncomfortable for some reason and glanced over at his partner, Royce. To my eye he appeared angry. “Perhaps later, but not for now,” he said. “That was to be the plan, but we have put such things on … shall we say … temporary hold. We had a minor incident recently that unfortunately decreased our town’s population. Maybe later.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Something was clearly amiss. “Well then, you won’t mind if I just have a friendly conversation with one or the other, do you? You know, if the opportunity arises,” I asked harmlessly.
Royce looked nervously at Hank and answered first. “Just keep it on the first floor, and it shouldn’t be no problem. Lot of competition, though,” he observed.
“Oh, I don’t aim to compete,” I assured him. “It’s just that I haven’t seen a pretty face in a month of Sundays, and thought it might be nice to socialize a bit.”
“Socialize all you like,” Hank said. “But just one other thing. As long as you are in Broken Willow, there will be no cheating or stealing or the like. We aim to run a tight ship, and trust me, Royce can be a real effective first mate, if you know what I mean.”
Royce Dunbar patted his Colt Peacemaker loud enough to be heard.
“Honor among thieves, that sort of thing?” I asked.
Hank nodded. “Something like that.”
“Thanks,” I said, tipping up the brim of my hat. “I think I’ll go get that free beer you mentioned.”
“Take her slow,” Royce replied.
As I walked over to the bar, I couldn’t help but notice that his hand was still tapping the butt of his pistol.
While at the bar, I took a closer look around. The walls of the saloon were chinked with old newspaper and mud packed in between the logs, but in general the b
uilding seemed solid enough. There were several thin ropes stretched across the ceiling from which hung various lanterns. I counted eight large windows to let light in, and all were built with shutters. That was a very good idea. Anyone who’d spent a single winter in this area knew the importance of closing a room off to wind, rain, and snow.
There were about twenty or so tables in the place, but not all had chairs. Somebody had simply cut down a few rain barrels and added planking on top to sit on. Seated at the tables and standing next to me at the bar were approximately thirty or so men of varying ages. Even at a quick glance, I recognized at least three men with wanted posters out on them. I knew from the get-go that the odds would be stacked against me, but the numbers here in town went far beyond what I had expected. I’d have to get very clever real quick.
I watched the women for a while. They were wandering around the saloon, bringing the men beer and occasionally being forced to sit with them. They all had a look of profound sadness that touched even a hard-ass like myself. I quickly realized how difficult it would be to get them alone, as there were at least ten men for every girl.
I took a gulp of my beer and stared at it, surprised at how good it tasted. “Not bad,” I said to the bartender.
“It’s the mountain water the beer’s brewed in,” he replied.
“Really? Brewing it in mountain water makes it taste better?”
“Why not?” the bartender asked, resting his arms on the counter. “Wouldn’t be surprised if someday brewing with mountain springwater becomes famous all over the country.”
“Right,” I replied. “And when that day comes, they’ll be selling beer in cans like peaches.”