Centennial (104 page)

So Calendar rode in to Centennial and sent a boy up to the headquarters to fetch Jim Lloyd. When the subforeman came down, Calendar said, “Jim, they killed Coker.”

“I know.”

“He was your friend.”

“He certainly was.”

“They’re holed out in the saloon at Blue Valley.”

“What are you goin’ to do about it?”

“With your help, I’m gonna kill ’em.”

“My help?”

“He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

Jim licked his lips. He wanted to avoid gunfire, but Bufe Coker had been his friend. In the fight with the Comanche, Bufe had saved his life. In the worse fight with the Pettis boys, Bufe had saved him again. They were more than friends, they were brothers, and Jim could recall what Bufe had said on that last night they had ridden the two-to-four: “If two fellas eat dust in drag positions for four months, that makes ’em brothers, don’t it?”

“I’ll go.”

And as they were riding west toward the mountains, they were joined by a most unexpected volunteer. They heard their names called: “Jim, Calendar!” It was Potato Brumbaugh on his favorite horse.

“You after the Pettis boys?”

“We are.”

“I’ll join you.”

“Why?” Calendar asked.

“When they tried to burn me out, Zendt and Skimmerhorn helped me.”

“Was they the Pettis boys?”

“Sure. Didn’t you know that? The cattlemen in Wyoming hired them.”

No stranger posse ever rode the trail: an aging Russian farmer not directly involved, a young rancher-businessman who hated guns, a deadly marksman lugging a buffalo Sharps, who knew that he must strike first or not at all. The three rode west till they reached the trail leading up Clear Creek to Blue Valley, and there they cut far to the north over rough country.

“The Pettis boys never sleep,” Calendar warned. “The slightest change attracts their attention. No one must see us.” This was a long speech for Calendar, but each phrase was packed with meaning; a casual traveler stopping by might say, “Saw three fellows on the trail,” and that would be enough to alert the killers, so that when the strangers reached town they would be gunned down, just on chance.

So the three avengers dismounted and led their horses to the upper rim of the valley, where they could look down into the former mining camp. Tethering their horses, they started the descent, going slowly and very carefully lest even the snap of a twig betray them.

It was about five in the afternoon when they reached the level of the old camp, and there they waited till dusk. What an ugly place it was, Jim thought, as he studied the dirty stream that ran past his feet, the weather-stained boarding of the old mines, the dismal saloon, the few houses. Once he had heard Levi Zendt describe the valley as it had been when Alexander McKeag and Clay Basket occupied it, and he thought, They must have been thinking of a different place.

When dark settled over the valley, Calendar quietly slipped into the main street and with infinite patience scouted the saloon. When he came back his eyes glowed with excitement. “They’re in there!” And then he explained the battle plans: “I’ll take care of Frank. The one with the mustache. Jim, you’ve got to get Orvid. He’s a killer, Jim, and either you get him on the first shot or he’ll get us. Potato, you fire at Orvid, too.”

He showed his accomplices how the two gunmen were standing, and Jim interrupted: “I don’t shoot no man in the back.”

“It won’t be in the back, not when I’m through.”

“Calendar, I will not shoot a man in the back.”

For the first time in all the years that Jim had known him, Calendar touched another person. Placing his hand on Jim’s arm, he said, “I promise, it won’t be in the back.”

Through the darkness the three men crept toward the saloon. Finally they stood at the door, and in the silence Calendar looked at each man. He took a very deep breath, then did a most extraordinary thing.

Kicking open the door, he uttered a wild, terrifying scream that might have come from a pack of maddened coyotes. It was unearthly, hellish, a scream of such intensity that everyone in the bar, including the Pettis boys, automatically turned toward the door and grabbed for their guns.

As they did so, Calendar fired his buffalo gun right at Frank Pettis, blasting a great hole through the outlaw’s chest. At the same moment Jim Lloyd fired five times at Orvid Pettis, who stumbled and fell forward, to intercept full in the face an enormous load of buckshot fired by Potato Brumbaugh.

Less than ten seconds after Calendar’s scream, the three intruders had backed out of the saloon and disappeared into the night. No one volunteered to pursue them, considering their devastating fire power, nor did any of the witnesses try to identify them. Everything had happened so swiftly that men could not even agree as to how many gunmen there were. “They was four, I seen them, and one was black.”

“No, they was two, the shotgun and the little fellow with two revolvers.” No one saw three men.

When the avengers were gone, two comments were made, and each passed into the folklore of the ghost town. One ashen-faced man, staring at the body of Orvid Pettis, asked in a whisper, “How we gonna know which was which? This’n ain’t got no head.” And the bartender, gaping in horror at the ghastly hole made in Frank’s chest by the buffalo gun, said, “I could pass a stein of beer through there and not get the edges wet.”

Spring, in 1886, was unusually dry, and years after the disaster residents of the area recalled: “Spring was mighty dry that year and the summer that followed was even drier.”

Otherwise it was a fine summer, with long even days that produced exhilaration and cool nights made for visiting. On the eastern range Amos Calendar tended his sheep, seeing no one for weeks on end, talking only to his dog Rajah, a singular animal who listened so intently and with so much joy in human companionship that he seemed capable of talking back.

Along the river Potato Brumbaugh pursued his various objectives, forging a farm that was practically a demonstration of how to apply water to land, how to make the desert blossom. He now shipped carloads of melons to Denver, raised sweet corn and was making a big success of his sugar beets, which for the time being he fed to cattle, since there was no sugar factory in the region. “A strange place,” he complained. “A land capable of growing the best beets but the men too lazy to build a plant to make sugar. In Russia we had a plant forty years ago.” He intended doing something about this.

In town Levi Zendt was coming to the end of a fruitful life. His many projects had prospered modestly; his son was doing well and only the absence of his daughter Clemma disturbed him. He was sorry that the area no longer contained Indians, for he felt deprived when day after day passed with no blanket-shawled Arapaho coming to his store to sit and watch proceedings. “This land was made for Indians,” he told Lucinda one day, “and without them we are all cheated.”

The man in town whose fortunes were taking a dramatic turn for the better was Messmore Garrett. His determination to protect his land and to extend his sheep holdings had been so persistent and so valiant that the bankers had begun to respect him, and even the
Clarion
declared a truce in its war against sheep.

In fact, the paper had become noticeably more tolerant of many things, including Englishmen, as demonstrated by the gracious article it ran in late June:

A recent visitor to our offices lent grace and a good deal of dignity to our modest surroundings. It was none other than the venerable Earl Venneford of Wye, come to Centennial for the first time to inspect his far-flung holdings. The Earl, a handsome, thin, gray-haired man in his seventies, spoke with an accent that would lend distinction to the Denver stage. He could play Hamlet
’s
uncle or King Lear as well as those who customarily essay those roles, although his voice might be a little weak for the mad scene in the latter play.

When we asked how the ranch was going, he replied like any eastern banker,
“
We always seem to be buying more cattle than we sell.
”
But his most memorable response came when we asked admiringly,
“
What kind of cloth is in your jacket?
”
For the information of our readers it was a heavy bluish-gray with what appeared to be little sticks of sagebrush woven in.
“
It
’s
Harris tweed, from the Hebrides,
”
he told us.
“
Cured by leaving it in horsep
—
.
”
He invited us to test the truth of this last statement by smelling the cloth, and from our long acquaintance with stables we are prepared to affirm that the noble Earl was telling the truth.

Venneford spent three weeks at the ranch, then rode in a comfortable wagon up to Line Camp Four, where he reveled in the piñon trees and erosion sculptures, but he felt himself really at home only when he reached the Cheyenne Club, with its afternoon polo games and delightful tennis. The long summer evenings he spent outdoors playing croquet by torchlight, a game at which in spite of his years he was most adept.

Charlotte Seccombe was with him constantly, assuring him of the progress of his ranch and introducing him to the other British ranchers in the area. At times the club seemed an adjunct of some military club off St. James’s Street, so many Englishmen with military connections kept appearing, but mostly it was the hearty cattlemen of Wyoming who clustered around Venneford to talk about mutual problems. Claude Barker was there with his tales of fending off sheepmen from Horse Creek, and the sturdy Scotsmen from Chugwater gave their own accounts of that feud.

But when the festivities were over, and Lord Venneford was preparing to board the train for Chicago and New York, where the boat would be waiting, he struck fear in Oliver Seccombe’s heart by announcing in a thin, reedy voice, “I’ve seen wonders I never expected to see. Oysters in Wyoming! The beauty of Line Camp Four! The charm of my hostess! And God knows what else. The only thing I haven’t seen is cattle, so as soon as I reach home I shall be sending Finlay Perkin out to look into that. He shall be wanting a strict accounting. Of that I’m sure.” And without further formality, he strode onto the train and disappeared.

It must be said in his favor that in no way did Oliver Seccombe seek to incriminate his wife. He did not accuse her of forcing him to waste money, nor did he ridicule the castle she had built at headquarters. He had enjoyed thirteen years of happiness with her and found her now as exciting and unpredictable as when he first courted her. She still sang her words with a delicious accent; she still laughed at the contrarieties of life and had never once complained that existence in Colorado was less than she had hoped. She loved the range and was an exemplary ranch wife.

It was true that she wasted money, but principally it was her own. That Oliver had “begged and borrowed a bit from the ranch,” as he put it, was his decision, not hers, and no matter what defalcations Finlay Perkin might uncover, they would rest on Seccombe’s head and not his wife’s.

“Why is Venneford sending Finlay Perkin out?” Charlotte asked.

“We’ve spent somewhat more than we can account for,” he evaded.

“What do you mean?”

“Book count. We ought to have a lot more cattle on the land than we do.”

“That’s easy to explain. Cows sometimes don’t have calves.”

They rode by wagon back to Line Camp Four, and there he forced her to face up to the difficult problems that would be raised when Perkin arrived with his notebooks and papers.

“He’ll have a list of every cow we ever bought, and he’ll want to tick off each one.”

“Will that be possible?”

“Not with a thousand cowboys could he do it.”

“Then, what’s the worry?”

“He’ll niggle away until he turns up every discrepancy, and in the end he’ll see that somewhere around twenty-four thousand cattle have disappeared.”

“What in the world ...”

“They have disappeared, Charlotte. No one’s stolen them, like that, but they just aren’t here. And how can I explain that to a man like Perkin?”

How indeed? He arrived at Cheyenne on September 15, 1886, and insisted that he be taken immediately to Line Camp Four. He was a small, wispish man sixty-six years old, accompanied by so much luggage that it required two porters to lift it off the train and into a special wagon. In the past eighteen years he had never once been outside Bristol, not even to visit his parents in Kincardineshire or the bankers in London, yet from reading reports and studying maps he had an exact knowledge of Wyoming and northern Colorado.

“Ah yes,” he said thinly as he sat in the carriage, hands folded, looking left and right. “This is the Union Pacific and our lots eighty-one through eighty-seven lie just over there. Yes, this is the deep well we drilled in 1881, and I see it’s still pumping. This, I take it, is the new Glidden barbed wire. Is it standing up well?”

He knew to the quarter mile when they should be turning south to reach the camp, and as he approached it he recognized new fencing and pastures from which cattle had been removed. “It’s a pity,” he said, “a great pity that the government won’t sell us these intervening sections.”

“We have the use of them anyway,” Seccombe said with an attempt at airiness.

“Using is never the same as owning,” Perkin said abruptly. “Ah, this is the gate to the camp itself.”

When the carriage drew up before the cabin, he did not even look at the living quarters but went directly to the low stone barn, inspecting its woodwork and the stalls for the horses. “Splendid building,” he said. “In 1868 when Skimmerhorn recommended wood I counseled stone. See how it’s stood, as good today as when it was built. Clinger did a fine job.”