“Me and my partner, here, are still carryin’ our pay from the Confederate army. I was wonderin’ if we could find out what it’s worth if we exchange it for Union money.”
Relaxing at once, since it was now obvious the strangers were not planning to rob the bank, the manager answered.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you that your money is worthless. You see, Confederate money was printed and issued by the states—not like Union currency. So what it amounts to is there might be a small exchange rate in some states—no more than pennies on the dollar at that. Most states and territories don’t give you anything for it. Colorado Territory is one of them.”
It was not really surprising news to Joel. He figured as much, but he thought it had been worth asking, just in case.
“We’re needin’ to pick up some supplies,” he said. “We’ve got stuff to trade. Maybe you could point us toward someplace that’ll do some tradin’.”
“The man you want to see is Guthrie,” the banker replied. “He’ll sell or barter.” He turned to point toward the north end of the street. “Right next to the saloon—there’s a big sign over the door—Guthrie’s General Store. He was here before the town, ran a trading post, dealing with the Indians mostly, so he’s used to trading.”
“Much obliged,” Joel said, and nudged Will with his heels.
They continued up the street toward the general store, both men fairly amazed at the number of people they passed, men and women, going about the business one would expect in a busy town back east. It was not what Joel had expected of a mining town. There were several men lounging on the boardwalk before a saloon that proclaimed itself to be the Miner’s Rest, and Riley turned to give Joel a grin as they rode past. Next door to the saloon, they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail. Riley licked his lips as if already able to taste that drink he was bent on having as soon as their business in the store was completed.
“Don’t forget,” he felt compelled to remind Joel, “we need to have some cash money to boot.”
Joel chuckled. “I won’t. Else you might trade one of the horses for a shot of whiskey,” he teased.
“Mornin’, fellers,” Ed Guthrie greeted them when they walked in. A short, stocky man that struck Joel as the spitting image of Riley if he had had hair on his shiny bald head, he came out from behind the counter. “You fellers just hit town?” he asked, making no effort to hide his frank appraisal of the two Confederate soldiers. Not waiting for an answer for his question, he asked another. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ll be needin’ some supplies,” Joel answered, “some coffee, some sugar, flour, dried beans, some salt, and a few other things, soon as I can think of ’em.”
Riley, who had walked over to a counter on the other side of the store, piped up then. “Some pants and shirts, too,” he said. “These damn uniforms is about to fall to pieces.”
Guthrie nodded. “It’d be a pretty good idea, even if they weren’t,” he said. “Folks around here are lookin’ to forget about the Blue and the Gray. There’s been too much trouble between the two sides, and we’d just as soon forget about the war and get on with life.” He walked over to Riley. “You fellers thinkin’ about tryin’ your luck pannin’ for gold?”
“Nope,” Riley replied. “We’re just passin’ through on our way to Idaho country, so we need some stout clothes that ain’t gonna turn to rags first time they get wet.”
“Well, I can fix you up with anything you need,” Guthrie said. “What are you usin’ for money? Dust? Paper?” He paused a moment, then: “You know, I can’t do no business with Confederate scrip.”
“Feller at the bank told us you’d barter,” Joel said, stepping in. “We’ve got trade goods that are worth a good bit of money.”
Guthrie scowled, apparently disappointed. “Skins?”
“Well, we’ve got a couple of deer hides if that’s what you want,” Joel said. “But we’re talkin’ about things you can sell, like brand-new Sharps carbines, and boxes of ammunition to go with ’em, and two fine horses we’d let go at the right price.”
Guthrie’s frown disappeared immediately. “Brand- new?”
“Brand-new,” Joel confirmed, “never been fired.”
“Maybe we could work out a trade,” Guthrie said, “dependin’ on how much stuff you’re lookin’ to buy.” He cocked his head back and added, “Course I’ll have to take a look at the guns before we even get to talkin’ trade.”
“Sure,” Riley said. “I’ll go get one.” He walked out to the packhorses while Joel looked over Guthrie’s stock of woolen trousers. In a few minutes, Riley was back with one of the Sharps and handed it to Guthrie. “There you go. Like we said, ain’t never been fired. Weapon like this would cost you about forty dollars or more.”
“Well, I suppose so,” Guthrie allowed as he looked the carbine over. “Course that’d be the price back east at the factory. There’s a helluva lot of these army weapons showin’ up now, so the value might not be worth the price of a new one.”
Joel glanced over at a couple of old shotguns leaning against the wall behind the counter. “Don’t look like many have been showin’ up here,” he said. “I don’t see anything you’ve got to sell but those old shotguns. Seems to me that a shiny new Sharps carbine would be worth a lot more than the original price back east.”
“And I’ll guarantee you, there’s four deer hides out there on our horses that were shot from a helluva long ways farther than a shotgun could hit anything,” Riley said. He didn’t feel it necessary to explain that the deer were shot with their Spencers. The principle was the same.
Guthrie couldn’t help grinning. “All right,” he conceded. “Let me figure up everything you’re buyin’ and then we’ll see if we can work a trade.”
The trading went on for the better part of an hour, but it was finally settled to both parties’ satisfaction. Guthrie’s price for the supplies they gathered on the counter came to a little more than forty dollars. Bargaining for some extra cash money to boot, Joel and Riley finally agreed to let Guthrie have one additional carbine and a box of cartridges to go with each. He stood outside with them while they loaded their purchases on the packhorses. When he got a glimpse of the extra weapons that remained, he began bargaining anew, but the most Joel and Riley would do was to let him buy two more for the equivalent of sixty dollars in gold dust. The trading finally done, Riley announced, “Now, since I’ve got a little money, I’m gonna have myself a little drink to wash all the lying outta my throat.”
“Well, it was a pleasure to do business with you boys,” Guthrie said, then hesitated before deciding to say more. “I might give you a little advice if you’re fixin’ to go into the Miner’s Rest. Ansil Bowers, the feller that owns that saloon, is a strong supporter of the Union, and back before the war was over, folks that was loyal to the South didn’t do their drinkin’ in the Miner’s Rest.”
“Well, it’s all over now, and the Union folks oughta be satisfied. They came out on top,” Riley said. “Let bygones be bygones is what I say.”
Joel laughed. “You’re so anxious to get in that saloon, you’d better go on. I’ll be in in a minute after I finish tyin’ these packs down.”
“You talked me into it, you silver-tongued devil,” Riley snorted joyfully. “I’ll try not to drink it all up before you get there.”
Guthrie lingered a few moments longer after Riley disappeared through the saloon door, watching as Joel tightened the last knot on the packs. Joel sensed that the store owner wanted to say something more but was still making up his mind.
“You know,” Guthrie finally said, “you fellers seem like decent men, and you didn’t ask my advice, but I think you might enjoy your whiskey better if you went on down to the Gold Nugget. Fred Bostic owns that saloon. He backed the Union, same as Ansil Bowers, but he thinks pretty much like you boys. The war’s over, so let’s all bu
ry the hatchet. But Bowers lost his only son in a battle against Rebel troops near Springfield, Missouri. The boy was fightin’ with a regiment of Kansas volunteers, and Ansil never got over it. You and your partner do what you want. I’m just tryin’ to give you a little friendly advice.”
“I understand what you’re sayin’,” Joel said. “I ’preciate it. We’re sure as hell not lookin’ for any trouble.”
Guthrie stepped back up on the boardwalk, then turned to say one more thing. “It mighta been better if you had shucked those Confederate uniforms and put on your new clothes.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll go see if I can keep Riley from gettin’ in trouble.”
• • •
Ansil Bowers glared at the stocky man in the rumpled gray uniform with sergeant stripes on the sleeves. He answered Riley’s friendly greeting with a sour grunt, which Riley ignored before ordering a shot of whiskey. Showing his obvious disgust by his unfriendly attitude, Bowers put a glass on the bar and picked up the bottle, hesitating before pouring.
“What are you using for money? I don’t take that Rebel money. It ain’t nothin’ but trash.”
Riley’s hackles went up just a little, but remembering Guthrie’s comment about the owner of the Miner’s Rest, he was determined to avoid any unpleasantness. He pulled his money out and slid it toward Bowers.
“Good ol’ federal dollars,” he said, and forced a smile.
Still undecided on whether or not he should refuse to offer service to a Rebel soldier, Bowers reluctantly poured the drink. Then he took the money and went to the end of the bar in an obvious move to put some space between himself and the unwelcome customer.
Seated at a table close to the end of the bar, two men played a casual game of two-handed poker. The exchange between Bowers and the stranger caught the attention of one of the cardplayers, Lige Tolbert, a sometimes miner, sometimes deputy sheriff, and full-time town bully. Engaged in none of those pastimes at the present, he saw an opportunity to relieve the boredom of the late morning. He had no particular loyalties to any cause, Blue or Gray included, but he knew the passion with which Bowers hated Confederate Rebels, so he decided to amuse himself as well as the few others in the saloon at that hour. With a grin for his card-playing partner, he stood up, pushed his chair back, and ambled over to the end of the bar across from Bowers.
“Damn, Ansil, what’s that awful stink? I swear, I never noticed it till just a couple of minutes ago. Smells like a dead rat run into the place. You smell it?”
He made sure his voice was loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear. The room went suddenly quiet, as the conversation among the few patrons ceased and all eyes were drawn to the stocky gray-haired man in the weathered uniform.
The implication was not lost on Riley. He looked over at Lige, who was grinning contemptuously. It was not necessary to spend much thought on the purpose of the man’s comments. Riley had seen more than a few troublemakers like Lige in more saloons than he could remember. He decided to ignore the comment and see if nothing more came of it. Lige, however, was not content to let it go without some reaction from the stranger.
“You can smell it now, can’t you, Ansil? It’s worse than a skunk, I swear.”
It was obvious to Riley that his antagonist was going to keep at it until he got some response from him. He knew that he could simply turn tail and slink out the door, which was probably what the bully expected, but it was not his nature to do so. Tapping his empty glass on the bar, he nodded to Bowers and said, “I think I’ll have another little snort.” Then he turned his attention to Lige and, with a knowing smile on his face, commented, “Couldn’t help hearin’ what you said about the smell in here. I think I caught a little hint of that stink when I walked in. And now that you mention it, you’re right. It got a helluva lot stronger when you walked closer to the bar.”
The leering smile instantly disappeared from Lige’s face. “Why, you old son of a bitch, you came to the wrong place to pick a fight. We don’t allow no Rebel trash in here, do we, Ansil?” Ansil responded with no more than a shrug. “So now I’m tellin’ you to get your worthless ass outta here before I throw you out.”
Unfazed, Riley remained at the bar, ignoring the bully, who had now taken a couple of steps away from the bar, preparing to follow up on his threat if Riley refused to leave. The crusty old sergeant refused to meet his gaze, looking at Bowers instead. “I’ll have that other drink now, if you please,” he told him.
“You’ll have what!” Lige exploded, scarcely able to believe the old man’s gall. “I’ll show you what you’ll have!” He had taken only a step toward Riley when he heard the sound of a rifle cocking. As all eyes had been trained on the confrontation at the bar, no one had noticed the lone figure standing in the saloon door.
“He said he’ll have another drink,” Joel said, his tone calm, but firm, as he stood there with his carbine held casually before him.
“You’re makin’ a helluva mistake, mister,” Ansil Bowers finally spoke up. “I ain’t gotta serve none of you Rebel trash.”
“You’re gonna serve this one,” Joel told him, “and the sooner you get on with it, the sooner we’ll be gone.”
Emboldened by Lige Tolbert’s presence, Bowers replied, “The hell I will.” In the next instant, he suddenly jerked backward, startled by the sharp crack of the carbine and the crash of broken glass as the lamp behind the bar was shattered. It was followed at once by the sound of another cartridge inserted in the chamber and, a moment later, by the gasps of the startled bystanders.
Joel motioned with the Spencer and said, “Pour him his drink, and be quick about it. I’m losin’ my patience.”
He did not discount the probability that the shot had been heard by a sheriff, or marshal, whoever represented the law in town. Bowers did not move, so Joel pulled the carbine up and aimed it at the large mirror behind the bar.
“Wait! Hold on!” Bowers screamed. “I’m goin’!” He moved at once to fetch the bottle.
Thinking the confusion had distracted Joel’s attention from him, Lige dropped his hand on the .44 he carried, but thought better of it when Joel said, “That would be your last mistake today.”
The barroom was gripped in stony silence as Bowers poured whiskey in Riley’s glass, his hand shaking so with rage that he spilled a good portion on the bar. He set the bottle down and took a step to his right. Motioning with the weapon again, Joel waved him back toward the end of the bar, thinking that Bowers might have tried to position himself where he kept a shotgun behind the counter. The consternation on Bowers’s face tended to convince Joel he had been right.
“Let’s hurry it along, Riley,” he said. “I’m beginnin’ to get a feelin’ we ain’t really welcome here.”
“Don’t you want one?” Riley replied, seeming to be in no particular hurry.
“I kinda lost the mood right now. Tell you what, take the bottle. Pay the man, so he won’t be out any money, and we’ll be on our way.”
Riley tossed his drink back, grabbed the bottle, and backed toward the door, one hand resting on the pistol he wore. “Gimme a minute,” he said, “and I’ll untie the horses.”
Joel continued to back carefully toward the door after him, alert to any motion from any quarter. “You’re lucky to get outta here alive, mister,” Bowers fumed.
Emboldened by Joel’s retreat, Lige took a step toward him, and when Joel didn’t seem to react, he took another. This was the moment when postmaster Sam Ingram, craving a drink, walked into the saloon, completely unaware of the tense situation inside. Surprised, Joel had to step quickly aside to keep from being bumped into by the equally surprised postmaster. Lige saw the confusion as his opportunity to act and charged Joel, drawing his pistol as he ran. His mistake was in misjudging the reflexive actions of the man holding the carbine, and his .44 barely cleared the holster when the butt of the Spencer slammed against his
nose and dropped him like a stone on the barroom floor.
Joel watched him for a few seconds, but when Lige didn’t move, he kicked the dropped pistol away from his hand and continued to back slowly out of the saloon. In the doorway, he stopped to give one last warning.
“So far, nobody’s had to die over this, but know one thing for certain I will shoot the first man I see come out this door. That, I promise you.”
He paused a second longer to make sure everyone understood him before suddenly stepping outside, where Riley was waiting in the saddle, holding the chestnut’s reins. Joel ran to jump into the stirrup and they were off before he swung his other leg over, thundering off down the street toward the north end of town.
Behind them, the cloud of silence that had gripped the saloon during the tense moments before suddenly erupted into a noisy kettle of excited conversation.
“Who the hell was that?” Sam Ingram asked as Bowers and the man Lige had been playing cards with knelt down beside the injured man. No one bothered to answer him, curious as they were to see how badly Lige had been hurt. They rolled him over, causing him to groan in pain, his face covered with blood.
“Well, he ain’t dead,” Bowers stated, “but damned if his nose ain’t spread all over his face.” He sent a boy who worked in the saloon to the pump to get a pan of water and a washcloth. “Maybe we can clean you up a little,” he said to Lige, whose brain was still rattled and who was not sure what had happened. When the boy returned with the pan of water, Bowers sent him to get the doctor. “Better tell the sheriff while you’re at it,” Bowers called after him. “I don’t know why he ain’t here already. He musta heard that gunshot.”
Gradually, Lige came around. As he gained consciousness, he realized the pain even more as it had come to grip his whole head like a vise. He winced with each gentle stroke of Bowers’s washcloth, unable to breathe without gasping for air through his mouth. When his head was clear enough to remember, he murmured painfully, “He’s a dead man. He’ll pay up for this.”
Silver City Massacre Page 4