Along The Fortune Trail (11 page)

B
laine Corker sat at the table in the dim light of a table lamp, cleaning his six-shooter. He'd made the coffee at 4 a.m. and was on his second cup when Sammy lumbered into the living room of the bunkhouse, his hair matted to one side and his eyes half-open. “Hey,” Sammy said quietly as he crossed the room and headed out the front door into the dark on his way to the privy.

“Mornin’,” Blaine replied and holstered his pistol. He got up and hung his rig on a hook, refilled his cup, and sat back down at the table.

Sammy returned a moment later and retrieved a folded paper from the top of a cabinet, then found his coffee cup and filled it. He sat down next to Blaine and unfolded the map, and moved the table lamp to the position of best light. The hand-drawn map showed the New Mexico and Colorado Territories with the position of the Twin T. Ranch toward the bottom and Denver toward the top. Various landmarks, mountains, passes, rivers, settlements, and other topographical features were depicted in great detail.

“Man! That there's a map,” Blaine exclaimed.

“Yeah, ain't that somethin’? Reuben gave this to me Sunday. Drew it himself. Said he knew a good deal of it on his own, and he pow-wowed with some reliable sources on what he wasn't sure of … meanin’ Homer, Lundy … probably J.P. and Franklin, too … maybe some of those trappers he knows. Hell, knowing Reuben, his reliable sources might be bears and eagles and elk and such.”

“I wouldn't doubt it. Whatever he tapped he sure did a job on this.”

“Yeah, it's a good thing too. The maps I sent away for three months ago never showed.”

“It don't appear we'd need anymore ‘n this,” Blaine concluded.

“Yeah, this oughta do it. Reuben told me the relative scale of distance between different points is likely off some, but he felt certain about the accuracy of compass bearings for it.”

Blaine looked perplexed. “Relative scale? I figure I understand what you mean with accurate compass bearings, but relative scale done passed me by.”

“That just means the relationship of distances between the things on the map probably ain't consistently right.”

“Oh well, that's clear as mud now.”

“Well look here,” Sammy said pointing to a place on the map. “If we left Coyote and rode to Youngsville, figuring we'd gone about thirty miles, we might figure it was another thirty miles to Cebolla, because it looks to be about the same distance between Youngsville and Cebolla as between Coyote and Youngsville. But that might turn out to be wrong. It might be forty miles on up to Cebolla. So, the one inch on the map between Coyote and Youngsville might not represent the same distance as the one inch on the map between Youngsville and Cebolla—meanin’ the relative scale ain't right.”

Blaine looked at Sammy. “Yeah, I think I get it. I reckon it's like if my uncle Louis—he's a relative and a big ole fat boy—if he gets on a scale and it says he weighs thirty pounds more ‘n me, but he really weighs forty pounds more. Then the relative scale is shitboned.”

Sammy tilted his head for a moment and drained the rest of his coffee. “Yeah … that's about it.”

“So, you got an idea ‘bout the relative route?” Blaine asked as he broke out the makings and quickly rolled a smoke.

Sammy put his finger to the map and began to trace a route as he spoke. “I'm thinkin’ we swing east around San Pedro Mountain, then head northeast to Abiquiu at the Chama River. From there it looks like a straight shot due north up through Los Brazos to Chama.” Blaine watched intently and smoked while Sammy continued narrating and slowly running his finger along the map. “Then we veer northeast up through Cumbres Pass and on to Alamosa. Then we skirt these sand dunes on the east side.”

Blaine leaned in a little closer. “Sand dunes? Like the kind with camels?”

“Yep, that's what it shows. I don't know about any camels, but look there … it says sand dunes. And they look pretty big on this map.”

“Maybe we can trade our horses for camels when we hit Alamosa,” Blaine chortled.

“Seesaw not built for sand, huh?”

“I ain't ever rode my horse through a land of sand. I got no notion ‘bout how that might work out.”

“The map looks like we wouldn't have to ride through it … just along the edge here till we hit the mouth of Mosca Pass. Look there at the little print. It says lowest pass of the Sangres—the Sangre De Cristo Mountains.”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, putting his finger to the spot. “Then up this valley here? The Wet Mountain Valley?

“Right,” Sammy agreed. “Then on up there to Canon City, and on to Colorado Springs. Then trail straight north to Denver.” Sammy leaned back in his chair for a moment and got up to refill his cup as Blaine studied the map. “Whadaya think?” Sammy asked, pouring coffee.

“She looks good on paper.”

“Ain't that a fact,” Sammy replied flatly. “Well, I guess we'll see what it looks like when we're ridin it … change what we want to.”

“Or need to.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“You got any different thinkin’ on when you wanna go?”

Sammy squinted in consideration of the question posed to him. “It's warmin’ up nice lately, so I was thinkin’ we could get goin’ before the end of March. But nobody else around here thinks that's too good an idea.”

“It ain't,” Lundy said, limping into the room with the stiffness of an old cowboy who needed half an hour and a few cups of coffee to loosen up. “Was a lot of snow to the north this winter. Some of those passes are still treachery,” Lundy opined as he hobbled out the front door, not waiting for a response or showing the slightest interest in hearing one.

Sammy looked at Blaine. “Heard that opinion about the passes a few times now. Homer, Reuben, J.P…. now Lundy.”

“They likely got a good point,” Blaine replied.

“I know it. I just want to get the hell goin’ is all.”

“Then what say we just set a date for early April and stick to it … come what will.”

“All right. You got one in mind?” Sammy asked.

“What?”

“A date!”

“Nope. Anyways, it was yer party from the get-go. You pick it.”

Sammy let his eyes wander around the room as if under the night sky looking for constellations, his mouth hanging half-open in awe of it. “April ninth is one month out. We'll leave then,” he declared and gave a nod.

“April ninth it is,” Blaine agreed.

Lundy came back in the front door a bit more upright and fluid. “We're leavin’ April ninth,” Sammy announced.

Lundy headed for the cupboard. “Good. Should be a better deal then. Course you could get stormed on whenever. You buzzards leave any coffee?”

“It's a twenty-cup pot,” Blaine replied.

“Ahhh yes,” Lundy said as he poured. He took a sip and his eyes perked a bit. “That's a dandy. Made ‘er just right. You boys are up early. Scoutin’ a route are you?”

“Yeah. Takin’ a look,” Sammy replied.

“That map'll get you there. You takin a pack horse?”

“No,” Sammy replied. “Thought about it, but decided it'd just be one more thing to worry about. Looks like there's a fair number of towns the way we're headed. I'll take my fishin’ pole and a hatchet with the rest of my gear. I can get all I need on Dobe.”

Lundy nodded. “Yeah, that horse could carry three fat men while pulling a plow. You might want to stock up on food before you hit Cumbres Pass. Get caught thin up there and you could end up havin’ to eat yer horses—or each other.”

“I'll take plenty of salt,” Sammy said.

The days stayed warm and the work hard, as spring brought the season's obligations of herding and calving and branding and all manner of ranch maintenance and ritual. Sammy was glad of the work and how it made the time pass. He attacked it like a contest of will and preparation to what was ahead. The other hands had to bust hard in the competition of keeping up with his feverish pace. Lundy and J.P. and Franklin had fun and mischief in spurring it on, and they marveled in remembrance of what youth on fire could produce.

In the mornings and evenings, Sammy and Blaine spent time committing the map to memory, quizzing each other daily on the minutest details. They speculated on what each area would yield in game and water and grass and terrain, and the unknown. The speculation poured over into the evening conversation of the bunkhouse, with most of the hands happily partaking, offering facts and opinions that they floated and debated like a salon of philosophes.

When news of a spring fandango hit just a week before it was scheduled, it replaced Sammy and Blaine's trip as the dominant topic of conversation. The young hands were grateful they wouldn't have to wait long for the social bonanza.

T
he paper machete globes had painted images on them and lanterns inside that made them glow like heavenly bodies against the darkening sky. Some had scenes of people dancing, and others showed things of the west. One had a stagecoach and another had buffalo running across the plain, while still another showed a wagon train and another showed a long waterfall. The globes hung on rope that ran from pole to pole and lit the large outdoor dance area on the backside of the Buckskin Hotel.

The warm evening bustled with scores of folks who showed up for the fandango, many coming from nearby towns and farms and ranches and settlements, eager to join in the renowned socials that the hotel sponsored four to six times a year. Skirts whooshed as boots stomped and twisted out the steps of the dances called. The crowd whooped and hollered to the music that filled the night.

The Miller boys played from a small stage at one end of the area, in the company of guitar, banjo, spoons, harmonica, and vocal harmonies that rang perfectly from years of performance. Along the back wall of the hotel were tables of food and drink with barbequed beef and pork and relishes and bread and potato and bean salads and pies and cakes and various confections. And there was cider and lemonade and coffee and beer, whiskey, tequila, and moonshine.

Sheriff Ritter collected firearms as people entered and kept them in a nearby wagon that two deputies took turns guarding. Chairs and benches formed each side of the area, with women on one side and men on the other, a custom that even the married folks mostly followed as each side preferred socializing with their own until they came together in dance or strolled away for a few private moments.

A few of the young Twin T. hands were congregating in a semi circle, cleanly shaven and wearing their best shirts with clean pants and attended-to hats. They had the appearance of roosters on the prowl, slightly puffed up with strutting movements and posture that suggested they'd been impaled up their backsides with fence posts. They were prideful and took comfort and cues from being part of the group, hands from the famous Twin T. Ranch.

Bill Lohmeyer stood with his left thumb hooked over his silver concha belt buckle and his right leg extended artfully forward like a matador. He sipped his first tequila of the evening, feeling the warmth radiate outward from his chest to his arms and legs like liquid heat. His eyes looked beyond those who were dancing to the other sideline, carefully appraising all the younger women as if determining an order of prospective partners. He took another sip just as he spotted her. “Whoaaa boys! Take a gander at that honey yonder in the purple dress.”

“Where?” Jasper Dunlevy asked, almost shouting with his head bobbing and weaving like a turkey two days before Thanksgiving.

“I see her,” Porter Loomis said. “Yeah, she's an ace. But looky there … that group of three to her left. They're
all
sunny side up.”

“Where!” Jasper pleaded.

“Boys, there's a lot of handsome women here tonight,” Ben Kettle said. “I figured that much out thirty seconds after we got here.”

“Best get going while the night's young,” Bill said. He drained his tequila and set the cup down on the bench behind him. He headed straight for the girl in the purple dress. A moment later they were dancing.

“Lohmeyer's faster ‘n the pony express,” Porter claimed admiringly.

“Man, that
is
a handsome gal he's turnin’ with,” Jasper said, finally zeroing in.

“Great fixin's they got over there,” Knuckles Kopine said as he walked up to the group, still chewing the last of a mouthful and holding a cup of moonshine. “The barbequed pork is good as I ever et.” He hoisted his cup and drank it all in one swallow, not flinching.

Porter looked at Knuckles. “I'll tell you what, Knuckles. If you can find a girl that's hungry enough, she can eat off your shirt while you're dancin’ with her.”

Knuckles pulled his chin in and looked down at his chest, which was strewn with bits of pork and sauce and other unidentifiable foodstuffs. “Oh, hell! Damn it to hell!” He quickly pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. “Let me see that,” he said, swooping the cup of whiskey from Porter's hand and preparing to dab his handkerchief in it.

“Hey. Wait a minute! Whiskey'll stain it darker!” Porter exclaimed. “Jasper's drinkin’ that clear moonshine.”

“Oh?” Knuckles said. He gave a closer look at the contents of the cup, and then drank it and handed the empty cup back to Porter. He looked at Jasper with a sly smile and an extended hand.

Jasper looked at Knuckles’ hand. It resembled a small roast with fingers like salamis and knuckles that were huge and permanently swollen and disfigured from the many times they'd been broken. His hands looked like they weighed ten pounds each and were attached to wrists and forearms that looked more like a gorilla's than a man's. Knuckles was a notorious brawler who could slap a man and knock teeth out. Other than liking to fight and occasionally drink, Knuckles was a soft soul who was honest and hard working. Nobody knew his real name, but in the three years he'd worked at the Twin T., most of the boys had come to know not to provoke him.

“Go get some water. I don't want you dippin’ your snot rag in my drink to clean your shirt,” Jasper said, pulling his cup close to his body.

Knuckles gave a look of disappointment. “You ain't no fun at all.” He abruptly left in search of water.

“Ya know, I think Bill had the right idea,” Jasper said, looking intently across the area at a girl in a light yellow dress. “No time like the present. Down the chute!” Jasper put the cup to his mouth and gave a quick flick of the wrist while he threw his head back, as though it was the only proper way to ensure that it would all get down his throat. He swallowed in two forced gulps and suddenly pitched forward coughing hard. Ben and Porter instinctively backed up a step, unsure of what Jasper might launch in their direction. Jasper straightened up, his eyes as wide as lily pads and his face flushed. He took a deep breath. “That stuff is strong!”

Ben and Porter laughed. “You gonna make it?” Ben asked.

“I'm gonna give it all I got. Wish me luck, boys.” Jasper handed his cup to Ben and strode off toward the girl in the yellow dress.

She saw him coming her direction and wondered if the slim cowboy with his hat pulled low had her in mind. He stopped in front of her and removed his hat, holding it over his heart as if the moment were a sacred ceremony, with her being worthy of the deepest honor and respect. “May I have this dance?” A vapor cloud of moonshine wafted into her face and she hesitated for a moment. But his straight blond hair was combed and his clothes were clean and he was a picture of politeness and sincerity standing before her.

“Yes you may,” she replied and held out her hand.

Jasper put his hat back on and smiled at her. He took her hand and led her out to the dance area. “I don't know too much about dancin,’ ma'am.”

“Then why do you want to dance?”

“‘Cause you're so pretty, and I didn't rightly know how else I could talk to you.”

She laughed. “I think you'll be fine if the spirits don't overcome your balance and good manners.”

“Oh don't fret about that, ma'am. I could ride my horse backwards with a half bottle of whiskey in me, and my mama taught me to always be polite. Besides, if I hadn't had a drink, I'd a been too nervous to ask for a dance.”

“It seems your nerves are calm now. What's your name?”

“Jasper Dunlevy, ma'am…. and yours?”

“Crystal Alloway.”

“It's nice to make your acquaintance, Crystal”

“And yours too, Jasper.”

He held her close and they whirled around with the rest of the crowd.

Sammy took a long pull off his beer as beads of sweat rolled down his face. He and Jenny had danced four straight. He was happy for the beer and the break and a moment to watch all that was happening. Many of the Twin T. boys had found their way to the dance floor, while others were talking and drinking. Lundy and Franklin and J.P. were standing stoically together with drinks in hand, watching the action like the council of the wise.

Sammy could see Reuben at the makeshift bar with a cup in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, his hands moving very animatedly as a group of men stood around him listening to the prophet of the night. Reuben paused to drink and inspect the level of the other men's cups, refilling those he deemed not sufficiently full and ignoring those who attempted to wave off any refill. He poured anyway. Then it was on with the story.

“Hey, Sammy,” Blaine said as he walked up. “What a party, huh? Looks like you danced up a sweat too.”

“Yeah, I'm not much good at it, but I'm gettin’ lots of practice tonight.”

Blaine took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a pass of his forearm, then replaced his lid. “Buncha them girls came over from a college in Stratford … just started up last September. They's studying to be teachers.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“I been twirling with that sweet thing yonder in the blue dress. She told me. She's one of ‘em.”

Sammy looked in the direction Blaine was motioning. “She looks like a sweet thing.”

“Two wagon loads of ‘em come over. They got chaperones with ‘em. Some of the teachers that teach ‘em, she said. They're campin’ down by the river tonight.”

“Yeah, there'll be a bunch of folks campin’ tonight … most of ‘em drunk.”

Blaine laughed. “Yep, I'll be one a that crowd. Fact, I might just camp down by the river myself … make sure them girls is looked after.”

“Well, you won't be alone. Those boys who work the sawmill over in Cuba are here tonight. Between them and our outfit—and who knows who else—I'm guessin’ that river will be a right popular spot once word gets around those gals are campin’ there.”

Blaine suddenly looked serious. “Well don't tell nobody! I don't want a herd a goofy bastards tryin’ to horn in.”

Sammy laughed. “They won't hear it from me.”

“Where you puttin’ in tonight?”

Sammy didn't answer. His attention was on Jenny. He could see her at the front tables where the food and soft refreshments were. She was shaking her head, as if to say no, and taking a step back from a man who was six foot four and thin, but strongly built. The man had advanced a step when she stepped back. She was looking to the side, not wanting to make eye contact with him.

Blaine was a little surprised when Sammy abruptly left and walked like a bull on the prod toward the food area. He peered ahead and spotted Jenny and the man who stood over her in a menacing manner. “Uh oh,” Blaine said aloud to himself.

Sammy slowed his stride as he approached, not wanting to be obvious in his haste and attract undue attention. “Hello, Jenny,” he said as he arrived. He immediately stepped between Jenny and the stranger, with his face to Jenny and his back to the man. “Is everything all right here?” he asked softly, searching her eyes.

The voice from behind came at once. “What the hell you think you're doing, Mister? I'm talkin’ to her. Hit the trail!”

Sammy ignored him and looked at Jenny. She spoke quickly in a near whisper. “He wouldn't quit after I told him I didn't want to dance … but it's all right. Just walk me away. Let's not make trouble here.”

The big hand grabbed Sammy's shoulder and pulled him around. “I told you to hit the trail!”

Sammy looked up several inches and knew he was one of the boys from the sawmill. “The woman doesn't want to have any further conversation with you … so let it go,” Sammy mildly replied.

“I didn't hear that from her.”

“I'm speaking for her now, and that's the way it is.”

“Who the hell are you? Is she your wife?”

“No.”

“Then you got nothin’ to say. I'll whip your ass right here and show her who the man is!”

Sammy could feel the attention that the scene was drawing. People in the immediate vicinity were watching and listening. He leaned in close and spoke quietly. “All these folks are havin’ a good time. Let's walk up that alley right over there where we won't disrupt these folks … and you'll get your chance, tough man.”

The man shot a look at Sammy that had a hint of surprise and reappraisal of the smaller man standing before him. “Let's go,” he finally said with as much confidence as he could muster in his tone. The tall man began to make his way toward the alley.

Sammy turned to Jenny. “I'll be right back,” he said.

“No … don't go. Please stay here.”

“I'm just gonna talk to him. It'll be fine. Don't worry and wait for me here.” Sammy wheeled and started after the man.

Blaine could see the action developing as the tall man made his way through the crowd, saying something to a few other men along the way. They were sawmill boys, and they began to trail slowly toward the alley in a procession that Blaine sized up as unfavorable odds for Sammy. Blaine walked over to where Lohmeyer and Knuckles were standing. “Come on boys … we got a partner in need.”

“In need of what?” Knuckles asked.

“Our help more ‘n likely,” Blaine replied. “Sammy's about to have it out with some tall dude. I think he's one a them sawmill boys, and I saw him signal some of his friends on the way out. Looks like a stacked deck.”

“Let's go reshuffle it. We're followin’ you,” Lohmeyer said.

The men played down their pace, making their way through the crowd.

“Where you boys goin’?” Porter Loomis asked as his path leaving the dance floor intersected theirs. “The bar's the other way.”

“Yeah, but the beatin's this way,” Knuckles replied.

“Come on with us,” Lohmeyer said.

“What the helI is this about?” Porter asked as the boys continued on their path without offering an answer. He fell in behind them. “Looks like I'm in,” he announced to himself as he followed.

The foursome exited the party area and followed behind the group of five sawmill boys who were trailing Sammy and the tall man. The weird procession looked like it was on a march to the moon, which was nearly full and hung directly at the end of the alley like a beacon beckoning forth the spirits of the night.