Along The Fortune Trail (20 page)

T
he night was moonless and black like coal. A dog barked several times at a passing skunk and then grew quiet again. Inside the small adobe house, the man slept deeply, snoring and exhaling a whiskey vapor that permeated the room. He did not hear the door whine ever so faintly as it slowly opened. Nor did he hear the floorboards creak as the intruder took slow, easy steps into the room and then stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

The dark did not relent. The intruder made his way toward the sound of snoring, stepping lightly until he reached the bed and stood in the pitch black beside the slumbering soul. Then he quietly took the match from his pocket. A moment later a burst of light leapt from the darkness as the stick match fully ignited.

The intruder immediately saw the gun belt hanging from the bedpost near the man's head and grabbed the six-shooter from the holster, stuffing it in his waist while his eyes scanned the room for other weapons. There was a rifle on a wall rack just to his right, and a hunting knife in a sheath on the bedside table. He grabbed the rifle with his right hand and turned to the bed as the man in it opened his eyes and made a desperate grab for the empty holster. The rifle butt cracked the man's head with brutal force and he fell back onto the bed bleeding and unconscious. The match went out, but another one lit an instant later and was used to light the lamp on the table.

Willis Burk opened his eyes ten minutes later. He was lying on the bed on his side with his hands shackled behind him. His mouth was stuffed with a rag and bound over by another that was tied at the back of his neck. There was rope around his chest and arms as if he'd been lassoed. Moving his head, he felt the sticky ooze of blood between it and the blanket, then looked down at his feet that were shackled. Blood had flowed into his eyes and he blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision. What he saw struck him as oddly familiar. Then he realized that the shackles were army shackles. He blinked his eyes repeatedly and the blurry figure across the room began to come into focus.

A man sat at the table. He looked to be writing something. Willis Burk was having some difficulty breathing through his nose and attempted to yell, but it came out only as a muted and indistinguishable grunt. Sammy looked up from the table. “Shut the hell up,” he said, and continued writing while Willis continued bleeding.

Willis grunted, but there was no one to hear him, even if he had screamed. His house sat on the eastern edge of town, a quarter mile from the other nearest building. As he lay there watching the man write, his mind twisted and turned over what this was about. He'd never seen the stranger before that he could remember, and he tried to piece together the possibilities. There were many. He knew that being bound by U.S. Army shackles was not a good sign. It led him to consider the illegal sales of army rifles, ammunition, and other army provisions to Indians and Mexican banditos. But he'd never had direct dealings with any of them. That's what his two trusted associates were for. He was insulated.

Willis Burk was a former army officer with a distinguished record who had landed a position as the civilian procurement and provisions agent for Fort Union just outside Santa Fe. His two trusted associates had been under his command as part of his platoon during the Civil War. In their present illegal activities, they arranged the sales and directed the deliveries, and Willis provided the goods to be sold. Willis ordered for the fort based on needs the fort's quartermaster submitted to him. He simply added on a little extra to the requisition form for his own enterprise before it was submitted up the supply chain. Then, when the goods arrived at the Santa Fe warehouse he oversaw, he removed his take and forged a new bill of lading before delivery to the fort. The newly-created bill of lading properly represented what was in the received shipment, so the fort got what had been ordered, and Willis embezzled the rest. Willis knew the whole operation could go south with a proper audit, but understood the lack of efficiency and oversight of the army, and of western forts in particular. And he certainly figured he'd have advance warning if any inquires began. Then he would simply vanish. His associates hadn't been compromised. If they had, he would have known about it before this man came in the night.

Sammy finished writing his note, folded it, and put in an envelope. He pulled his chair over in front of the bed and sat down. “You made a big mistake sellin’ guns to renegade Apaches … and whoever else you sold to.” Willis blinked hard and narrowed his eyes. “Those Apaches murdered innocent people with army rifles. I oughta cut your throat right here. Of course, if I'm wrong about this, I'd be real sorry. But I'm not wrong … am I, Willis?”

Willis grunted.

“That's what I thought you'd say. You see, I've got a bill of lading that I took from a cave where some renegades were livin’. It's for a shipment delivered to you. Got your signature at the bottom. Part of that shipment was a case of twelve rifles—even gives the first and last serial number of the lot. It's been circled with a notation that says: To T. L. And I've got this note, too. Looks like the same writin’ as your signature. It says ‘Ten Loco, noon at Hogback Butte.’ Instructions for somebody, Willis?”

Willis laid still now, hoping his face didn't betray his worry.

“It so happens I brought one of those rifles back from the cave—and you wanna take a guess at the serial number? It ain't good, Willis. You know what I can't figure, is how the hell that bill of lading and note ended up in that cave?”

That was exactly what Willis was trying to figure out as panic beset him.

“Sure looks like you or one of your friends was careless. I'm not sure how this will all fit together to barbeque you. But you and I both know those rifles never got to the fort. How'd you cover that up? Well, no matter. I'll give ‘em what I got, and they can figure it out.”

Sammy stood up and backed up a few feet, grabbing the lead rope from the floor, the other end of which was tied around Willis Burk's chest. “On your feet!” Willis swung his shackled legs off the bed as Sammy pulled on the rope. Willis rose with the momentum of being yanked, and then hop-stepped suddenly at Sammy with his head down like a charging bull. Sammy sidestepped him and watched as Willis pitched forward and crashed face first to the floor. “That wasn't too graceful, Willis. All right, we can do this the hard way.” Sammy grabbed the rope with both hands and dragged Willis out the door and into the night.

Sammy stopped by the sheriff's house at 5 a.m. and beat on the door until he heard the stumbling movement inside. A moment later, a dim light shone through the window as the occupant got a lamp lit. The door opened and the sleepy man stood before Sammy with a pistol in his hand. “What is it, for Christ's sake?”

“Here you go, Sheriff.” Sammy handed him the army rifle and an envelope that contained the bill of lading, the note, and a letter explaining all that had happened.

“What's all this?”

“This is about Robert Studdard and Willis Burk. It's all explained in the envelope. Burk's been selling army rifles to renegade Apaches … and others I don't doubt. I hope you convict that piece of shit. I won't be around for the trial. If you need any other questions answered, talk to Blaine Corker. He's stayin’ out at Claire Studdard's house. You could talk to her too. She may be ready to talk about it now. So long, Sheriff.”

“Whoaaa, you hold on. You're not just waking me up and droppin’ this in my lap then prancing down the trail without telling me all there is.”

“I gotta get goin’, Sheriff.”

“Look mister, you just handed me evidence which gives me the right to detain you until I hear all the facts from you—not read about ‘em, or look at somethin’. You understand?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Then drag your ass in here. I like a good story and company while I'm having coffee. You look like you can provide both.”

“Fine, but can we finish this quick? I'd like to be ridin’ when the sun comes up?”

“The coffee will be ready in fifteen minutes. The rest of it depends on how fast you can talk? What's your name?”

“Sammy Winds.”

“I'm Mitchell Hunter. Glad to know you.” The two men shook hands. “Now come in and tell me about that—how'd you put it—piece of shit? Yeah, I think that was it. That piece of shit Willis Burk. I gotta tell you kid, I know that piece of shit. Always suspected he was crooked. I love it when my instincts are proven right.”

They drank coffee and ate some day-old fry bread as Sammy told the sheriff about stumbling upon the cave in the storm and all that happened afterward, including finding the bill of lading and the note, and their journey to Abiquiu and then to Santa Fe. The sheriff sat spellbound by it all and then grew curious.

“So you've been here nearly two weeks? How come you're just telling about this on your way out of town?”

“I've been busy working, helping Claire get her place back in shape. Besides, I'm not stickin’ around for any trial. And I don't know for sure if there's enough there to prove he was in on it. I'd bet my horse on it, but I don't know what they need in court to make it stick.”

Sheriff Hunter thought for a minute. “The fort should have some records of their own. If they do, I'm guessin’ Willis has a problem … particularly if they were never reported stolen on his end.”

They talked a few more minutes before Sammy finished his coffee and stood up. “I gotta get goin’, Sheriff. I sure hope you can put it all together.”

“With what you just gave me, I believe his goose is cooked.”

A minute later, Sammy was mounting up in the pale of first light as the sheriff stood watching from his doorway. “I'll be paying Mister Burk a visit later today,” the sheriff said.

“He's already waitin’ at your office.”

“There's nobody there now.”

“That's all right. He'll be there.” Sammy tossed the key down to the sheriff.

“What's this for?”

“You'll know when you see it,” Sammy said. Then he put light heels to Dobe and the horse broke to a trot up the street toward the trail to Las Vegas.

Sunday morning broke clear and beautiful in Santa Fe, with the Plaza coming to life as people headed to San Miguel Mission for Mass. The sheriff's office was adjacent to the mission, and many people passed it on their way to church. They stared and spoke quietly to one another as they passed by the pitiful figure shackled to the porch post in his underwear.

The top of his forehead had a gash, and his face was bruised and scraped raw on one side from hitting the floor. Dried blood was caked in his hair and on his face, and down his sleeveless undershirt. A note with thick letters was pinned to the back of his shirt and read: The Scoundrel Willis Burk - sold army rifles to murdering Apache renegades.

Willis did not look at, or speak to, any people passing by, nor did anybody speak to him. Some privately speculated that the sheriff had run out of jail space or that maybe this was a new humiliation tactic to deter crime.

Willis was still there when Mass was over. Sheriff Hunter showed up at noon.

S
ammy rode the horse trail east as it crossed high mountain plains and led into forest, skirting the base of peaks that rose thousands of feet above the trail. Fast moving clouds swept the tips and blended with the snow high above. The April runoff ran full, and Sammy's pace slowed over the mountainous ground, busy with creeks and pine trees and groves of aspen and birch, thick with buds on the cusp. He kept a watchful eye and a brisk pace, aware that he rode alone for the first time in unfamiliar country. The forest occasionally gave way to patches of open meadow, but extended visibility was never present. It was perfect territory for an ambush.

At noon he stopped in an open meadow and sat at the base of a steep incline that commanded a good view of all that was in front and below. He ate cinnamon bread and beef that Claire had packed for him, and thought about the strange turn of events since he and Blaine had left the Twin T. It certainly hadn't been the adventure he had imagined in the months leading up to his departure. Now, he felt strangely alone, with a renewed appreciation for the unforeseen. His mind wandered back to Claire and Margaret and Blaine. They already seemed distant, even though the farewell had been just the night before. Emily's return to her family and the night in Abiquiu seemed a month ago.

He wondered if he'd ever see any of them again. Claire and Margaret had fought back tears and insisted that he write to them when he returned to the T. Both had promised they would write to him.

Blaine gave him the half-full bottle of laudanum as a going away present. “I'm done with that loco tonic. I can get some more from the doc if I really need it, but I won't. I'm healin’ up good now. I reckon if the rest of your trip is anything like the first part, you'll be needin’ it before me.” Sammy chuckled to himself as he recollected some of the expressions on Blaine's face while stoned on laudanum.

He finished the beef and bread and drank water from his canteen as Dobe cropped grass thirty feet in front of him. The sun was warm, and tiredness descended on him like a thing not to be held off. He leaned back on the slope with his hat over his face and dozed. It was deep and pure and brief. Fifteen minutes later, he woke feeling as if he'd slept for hours, and with the sudden revelation that he wanted to get to Denver as soon as he could. “Come on Dobe … let's get movin’.” He mounted up and took off at a gallop across the meadow.

Toward the end of the day, Sammy rode down a gradual decline that continued on through the woods for several miles before finally flattening out onto the open plains. He had a sense of relief on finally clearing the woods, knowing that Las Vegas sat on the plains and that he would arrive sometime the next morning. As the sun drew down in the sky behind him, the cowboy and his horse threw an eastward shadow that stretched out on the ground like a long finger pointing the way.

On the horizon he saw the shape ahead in line with the direction he was riding. It was a good ways off and rose above the flat plain like an oasis, with a thin stream of smoke trailing skyward. As he got closer, he could see it was a group of five wagons pulled into a circle formation next to a stand of cottonwood trees. The distant recollection of his own family and their murderous end ran through his mind, but he was brought back by the sound of barking dogs, who had spotted him coming their way.

Several men stepped out from the center of the encampment and pulled their hat brims lower against the setting sun to see the object of the dogs’ interest. Women were cooking at a fire in the center of the camp, and young children played a game of chase. Several teenagers were attending to chores, but some stopped and walked out amongst the men to see the approaching rider.

Sammy slowed to a walk the last hundred feet up to the camp. “Hello,” one of the older men called out as he stepped forward holding a rifle that was pointed down.

“Hello,” Sammy called back. He reined to a stop.

“It's rare to see a single rider out here on the plains. You need help?”

“No. I'm headed for Las Vegas. Just came off the Thompson Peak Trail from Santa Fe.”

“The trail to Santa Fe?” the man asked, confused.

“Yeah, one of ‘em. It's not the stagecoach trail—not fit for wagons. It's a shortcut through higher country. Mostly forest. Rough ground. I don't know how much of a shortcut it was. First time for me. I've never been the stage route. That would be farther south of here.”

“That's what we thought,” the man said. “We're bound for Santa Fe. Started from Pawnee Point, Kansas, and got here by way of the Cimarron Cutoff. We passed Las Vegas earlier this afternoon. It's straight up that way,” the man said, pointing northeast. “Another two hours. It's coming on dark. Why don't you get on down and have supper with us. You're welcome to camp with us too.”

“That's the best offer I've had today,” Sammy said as he dismounted. “I'll take you up on it.” He held his hand out to the older man. “I'm Sammy Winds.”

“Ronald Moore,” the man said as he shook Sammy's hand. “Happy to know you.”

The other men stepped forward and introduced themselves one at a time before they all went to the center of the camp where the scent of fresh biscuits and baked beans wafted sweetly in the air. Sammy was introduced to the women and all the youngsters. It appeared to Sammy to be a group of families with about twenty-five people in all.

During supper, everyone sat around the fire. The teenagers were interested in the lone rider from the plains. “Let the man eat in peace,” one of the men said after Sammy had answered a string of questions in a row.

“It's all right. I don't mind,” Sammy said. Some of the women took his statement as an invitation and began asking about Santa Fe, its shops and services and eateries and the people. Sammy obliged the questions, answering them with informative and colorful descriptions that had everyone listening intently. And as Sammy was very hungry and delighted by the quality of what was on his plate, he ate with abandon, spooning the beans and biting the biscuits in a symphony of flowing narrative and synchronic ingestion.

“Would you like some more, Mister Winds?” a girl of about eighteen sitting near him asked, just after he ran his spoon around his plate to collect anything remaining.

“Thank you. Yes, I would if there's enough.”

She quickly rose and took his plate. “There's plenty.”

Sammy looked directly into her eyes and realized how beautiful she was. “All right. Thank you, ma'am,” He looked away, aware that some eyes were viewing the interaction to see what they might.

“It's Melinda.”

Sammy looked back at her. “Excuse me, ma'am?”

“My name is Melinda.”

“Oh. Thank you, Melinda”

She smiled at him in a way that conveyed her interest. “You're welcome.”

The evening wore down with an hour of after supper talk around the fire, and then Sammy had taken his leave, thanking them all for supper and wishing them a good journey. The day's long ride and his early-morning reckoning with Willis Burk had left him tired and grateful at the prospect of hunkering down under the stars. Ronald had invited him for breakfast, but Sammy had told him he'd likely be gone at first light.

He laid his bedroll out by the far cottonwood and staked Dobe nearby after feeding him several pieces of hardtack and an apple. “Long ride today. Thanks for the lift.” Sammy sat down against the tree and rolled a smoke, listening to the nearby camp activity as some folks still sat around the fire talking. Others moved over to their wagons for evening chores before bed. A guitar played softly from inside one of the wagons, and a woman sang a lullaby.

Sammy lit the cigarette and took a drag as he looked up at the star-laden sky. The night was mild and the air was still. He saw the silhouettes approaching and opened his eyes wide. There were two people coming directly at him. One of them was a woman. “Hello, Mister Winds,” the soft, easy voice came. “It's me, Melinda.”

“Hello, Melinda.”

They walked up beside him. “This is my younger brother, Spencer,” she said.

“Hi, Mister Winds,” the boy said. “I met you before, when you got here.”

“I remember.” Sammy was unable to distinguish much about the boy's face, but knew he'd met everybody.

“At supper he heard you talk a little about that ranch you're from and wanted to ask you a few questions about being a cowboy,” Melinda said.

“Well sit down and ask away.”

They sat down and the boy wasted no time. “Is it exciting being a cowboy?”

Sammy took a drag. “How old are you, Spencer?”

“Eleven. I'll be twelve on my birthday—June fourth.”

“I'll tell you Spencer, It's real excitin’. Lots of hard work, but that's what makes it excitin’.”

“Really?” the boy asked quizzically. “‘Cause we farmed in Kansas before the tornado, and I did lots of hard work. I didn't think it was too exciting.”

Sammy laughed. “I never farmed, so I can't say. I've been cowboyin’ since before your age. It's all I've ever known. It ain't all fun. Nothin’ is. But it's a good life. Somethin’ a man can hang his hat on. Anything a man does that he's good at, that he can make an honest livin at, is something he can hang his hat on.”

“Yeah, but what's the exciting parts?”

“You want the most excitin’ parts, huh? Well … bustin’ broncs, ropin’, roundups, drivin’ a herd, huntin’ predators, calving, brandin’. There's a whole world of it. Of course, the least excitin’ parts is some of the same things. It all depends on how you look at it.”

“What do you mean, how you look at it?”

Sammy took a last drag and snuffed his cigarette out. “A while ago I was injured—hurt bad. And I couldn't do much of anything save lie around. When I finally could work again, I looked at it a whole new way. I was so happy just to be able to work, I found the joy in all of it. I have a friend who's over in Santa Fe right now. He's hurt and on the mend. He told me just the other day he'd pay money to work again.”

“He did?”

“Yep. That's a fact.”

“He could do my chores and wouldn't have to pay me.”

“I'll let him know.”

“Did you ever shoot an Indian?”

“That's enough, Spencer,” Melinda said. “You get on back to camp now. I'll be there in just a minute.”

“Oh, all right. So long, Mister Winds.”

“So long, Spencer. And remember, whenever you're working, find the joy.”

“Okay. I'll be looking for it.” The boy began walking back to the camp.

“That was nice of you. Those were good words,” she said.

“Just words I know to be true.”

She looked up at the sky. “You sure can see the Milky Way tonight.”

“Yeah, the path of the gods.”

“Path of the gods?”

“Somethin’ like that. Path of the gods, road of the gods … so named by ancient Greek poets.”

“You know about those things?”

“I know there's a lot of mythology—stories connected to the Milky Way and all the stars and constellations.”

“Tell me about the Milky Way.”

“Well, Greek myth has it that it was created when Zeus’ son Heracles was suckling at Hera's breast. And when she pushed him away, some of the milk spilled. But different people and cultures have their own stories. The Cherokee call it The Way the Dog Ran Away, based on a story of a dog that stole some cornmeal and ran away to the north, spilling the cornmeal across the sky.”

“Well, Mister Winds.”

“Call me Sammy.”

“Yes, Sammy. It sounds like you know much more than just being a cowboy. Missus Rupumond didn't teach us any of that when I was schooling.”

“I've read a few books is all.”

Melinda scooted close and sat right next to Sammy. “Are you married,” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you think I'm pretty?”

“Yes.”

“I think you're a handsome man. I'm not trying to be forward. It's just that … I don't know what's to become of my life. Everything is so turned upside down. And here we are talking under the stars somewhere out on the prairie. Our farm was wiped out. Now we're moving to Santa Fe for some business prospect my pa's excited about. My folks had enough of tornados. Me too. It's the third time we been hit, and this last one took everything.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too. I wish it helped how I feel. I'm just not sure of much anymore. A lot of girls my age are already married.”

“Maybe. But a lot of ‘em ain't. How old are you?”

“Eighteen. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Will you ever go through Santa Fe again?”

“Ever's a long time. I'm sure I will. It's only a couple of days from the ranch I ride for.”

“Will you kiss me once … here, this night … now?”

Sammy looked at her, and even in the dark he could see the despair and hope in her face. Life was as so many stars splayed across the galaxy, the possibilities always beautifully endless and forever frightening. He held his palm against her cheek and moved to her, kissing her deeply against the passion of it all.

They lingered for a moment. “If you come to Santa Fe again …”

“You'll be married by then. A beautiful woman like you won't last long.”

She smiled and held his face, then she rose. “I have to get back. Good luck and goodbye,” she said, and began walking back toward the camp.

“Goodbye.”