Friends and Enemies (10 page)

“Well, if it ain't the railroad inspector!” a man growled from the shadows of the alley.

A two-story building with balcony over the boardwalk across the alley darkened what illumination the distant street lamp was trying to provide. Robert's hand dropped to the walnut grip of his .45 revolver. The check of a lever on an unseen carbine made him hesitate.

“Don't go pullin' that gun!” the hidden man barked. “Get your hands up and get 'em up quick.”

“He don't look so tough now, does he, Dunny?” The voice was high-pitched, nervous, and more than a little drunk.

“Jist another railroad suit-and-tie man about to get his head smashed and his wallet lifted. Grab his gun, Shorty,” the man with the carbine ordered.

“Don't call me Shorty.”

“I always call you Shorty.”

“Don't call me Shorty in front of a suit-and-tie man.”

“Grab his gun!”

From the shadows of the alley, a thin man about five feet tall stepped out. His round felt hat was pinched on top with a Montana crease. He sported either a scraggly beard or a dirty face. With no light, Robert couldn't tell which.

Fortune kept his hands held high. “You boys roam the streets in packs like wild dogs and skunks?”

The short man yanked out Robert's revolver and shoved it up to his neck. The hammer clicked.

“Mister, I kin blow your head off right now!” he yipped.

Not unless you pull that hammer back one more click.
Fortune ignored Shorty and peered back down the alley. “Does it take all six of you to lift a wallet? Or just you two whiskey-brave drifters?”

“Shoot no, me and Dunny did this all on our own!” the little man bragged.

“Shut up, Shorty!” the hidden man ordered.

“Don't call me Shorty!” He shoved the barrel harder against Fortune's neck. “Give me your poke!”

“My wallet's in my boot,” Robert announced.

“What?”

“If you want my poke, my wallet . . . it's in my boot.”

“What's it doin' there?”

“Hiding from sneak thieves.”

“He's got his wallet in his boot!” Shorty hollered.

“I heard him,” Dunny huffed.

Robert Fortune stepped off the sidewalk into the dirt street.

“Where are you goin'!” the little man screamed.

Fortune lifted his foot to the boardwalk. “You want me to get my wallet, don't you?”

“Oh . . . yeah . . .”

“No!” the man in the shadows snarled.

“We don't?” Shorty gulped.

“What if he has a knife or a sneak gun in his boot?”

Shorty scooted away from Fortune and back to the alley. “What are we goin' to do, Dunny?”

“You fetch his wallet.”

“From his boot?”

“No!” the man hollered, “Jist have him mail it to us, you dolt!”

“But we ain't got no address, Dunny!”

“For the sake of Hades, Shorty, coldcock the suit-and-tie man. We'll take his wallet, his boots, and his gun as well.”

“I got his gun. It's got a real nice feel to it.”

Robert caught a glimpse of Dunny. He resembled the red-haired man that Holter had busted in the jaw.

“Depends on how much money he has,” Dunny replied. “We might just sell the gun and split the funds.”

Shorty inched his way back toward Robert Fortune. “You stay down there on the street,” he hissed.

“Does Dunny always make you do the dangerous part, Shorty?” Fortune asked.

The man stopped. It was still too dark to see his facial features. “Ain't nothin' dangerous about it.”

It's hard to read a man's eyes when he's standing in the dark.
“What if I have a knife up my sleeve? You'll be the one that takes the blade.”

The sound of Shorty's boot heels in retreat was the only sound for a moment. “What about that, Dunny? Let's jist shoot him.”

“We ain't goin' to shoot him. The sheriff would be here before we pulled his boots. Besides, his hands is in the air, and he ain't got a knife. Don't let him bluff you.”

“Keep an eye on my hands, Shorty. You don't want to take your eyes off my hands,” Robert called out.

“Don't call me Shorty.”

It all depends on how quickly Dunny pulls the trigger on that carbine.
“I don't know your other name.”

“Lester.” The word came out like a spit.

“Well, Lester, if I was worried about a man knifin' me, I'd forget his eyes and keep focused on his hands. He's got to carry a knife with his hands. Can you see my hands alright, Lester?”

“Turn around,” Shorty barked.

“Hurry up!” Dunny mumbled.

Robert stayed facing the two. “You aren't going to crease my new hat, are you?”

“I said, turn around!” Shorty's voice was near panic.

“I did know a gambler down in Baton Rouge,” Fortune continued, “that had a spring-triggered knife in the toe of his boot. Some men fell to the ground bleeding to death and they didn't even see him stick them. Did you ever see one of those, Lester?”

“Turn around!” Shorty's cry was similar to a man falling off a cliff.

“Would you like to see one of those boot knives now?”

“He's bluffin' you, Shorty!” Dunny insisted. “He ain't got no boot knife.”

Shorty mustered up a sneer. “Mister, if you don't turn around, I'll coldcock you right across the forehead.”

“I'd prefer that. It will look more dramatic to the jury when they sentence you to prison. Lester, do you know if they still have rats in those tiny brick cells over in Yankton?”

In the glimmering shadows Robert could see the finger come off the trigger as the little man raised the barrel of the revolver above his head. Fortune left his hands in the air until the last moment, then caught the man's wrist and dropped straight down in the dirt in front of the raised boardwalk.

He wrestled the gun from Shorty, even before the little man crashed face first into the dirt street. Robert rolled under the wooden sidewalk as a shot blasted from the alley.

“It's me!” Shorty cried out. “Don't shoot, Dunny, it's me out here!”

Robert fired one shot that ripped its way up through the wooden sidewalk. He heard Dunny sprint back down the alley. He rolled out and pointed the revolver at Lester, who staggered to his feet.

“Don't shoot me, mister. . . . Don't shoot me. . . . This was all Dunny's idea. . . . Don't shoot me, . . .” he cried.

“Get out of here!” Robert hollered.

“You'll shoot me in the back.”

“Get out of here before the sheriff arrives.”

“You goin' to shoot me?”

“You'll find out soon enough.”

“Oh, lordy, I don't want to die.”

“Then change your line of work.”

“Yes sir . . . yes, sir, I do believe I will. . . .” Shorty staggered, fell, got up, and ran down the middle of the street. Across the street someone lit a lantern. A dog barked. A baby cried, or a woman screamed, Robert couldn't tell which.

He searched under the boardwalk for his hat when he heard a voice from the balcony across the alley.

“You lookin' for a job, mister?”

Robert stood and tried to brush the dirt off his trousers. “Holter?”

“I know a railroad inspector that's lookin' to hire. You interested?” Then, there was a deep laugh.

“How long have you been up there?” Robert quizzed.

“The whole time.”

Robert jammed his hat down on his head. “Thanks for the help.”

“I thought it would be an insult to assume you couldn't handle those two.”

Robert strolled across the alley to the balcony. “You're right about that.”

“Besides, if I called them from up here, they might have panicked and actually shot someone.”

“Thanks for your restraint.”

“You want that railroad job?” Holter jibed.

“What's the boss like?” Robert pressed.

“A suit-and-tie man. Keeps his nose in the books till after midnight.”

Robert continued the charade. “Is the job dangerous?”

“Kind of like building a cabin over a rattlesnake den. You know you're going to get bit; you just don't know when.”

“Sounds good; are you hirin' tonight?” Robert brushed dirt and rocks out of his hair.

“Nope. You'll have to talk to him face-to-face in the mornin' . . . and don't wear them dirty clothes. You have to dress nobby.”

“See you in the mornin', Holter.”

“Yes, sir, I'll be there. You said it was good to see me in a jam before you hired me. Well, Mr. Robert Fortune, it was good for me to see what kind of man I'll be workin' for.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The loud banging at the top of the stairs was followed by a shout. “'Nica, open the door!”

The reply was muffled, but just as insistent. “No!”

“I'll tell mother!”

“I don't care!”

With a copy of Kipling's
Plain Tales from the Hills
in her hand, Jamie Sue Fortune paused at the bottom of the stairway. “You'll tell me what?”

Patricia stood at the top of the stairway, arms folded. Her long brown wavy hair cascaded across her thin shoulders. “Mother, 'Nica won't unlock the door.”

Jamie Sue folded the book over her finger to mark her place. “Open the door, Veronica Ruth!” she called out.

“It's not fair,” came a muted, whiny response.

“What isn't fair?”
Did I really pine for sixteen years to have a sister?
“Patricia Sarah, what is your sister upset about?”

Standing at the platform at the top of the stairway, Patricia looked taller, more mature, than twelve. “She's still pouting about my rose-colored dress.”

The reply came from a voice identical in tone and pitch. “It's not your dress. It belongs to both of us.”

The girl in the slightly wrinkled off-white dress leaned toward the locked door.

“It does not! We drew straws and I got first choice!” When Patricia turned sideways, her upturned nose and flat chest definitely looked twelve.

“It's not fair,” Veronica whimpered. “You got to draw first.”

Patricia leaned her mouth to the doorjamb and hollered, “You told me to draw first!”

“I was just tryin' to be polite. I shouldn't be penalized for being polite!”

Jamie Sue marked the book with a lavender ribbon, then tossed it on the bottom step, and scurried up the stairs. Her lace-up boots tapped impatience with each ascending step. Her right hand slid up the railing; her left hand held her hem above her ankles. “Veronica, open that door right now!”

“Mother, make Patricia agree to let me wear the rose dress,” Veronica sobbed.

“Open this door instantly,” Jamie Sue demanded again.

“Make her promise.”

Jamie Sue ran her fingers across the brass door handle. “The only thing I promise you, young lady, is to see to it you get a paddling if that door isn't opened by the time I count to three. One . . . two . . .”

The door swung open.

A red-eyed Veronica Fortune stalked toward the four-poster bed near the window. Her beige dress was identical to her sister's. Her hair was slightly matted, but it hung freely down her shoulders. “It isn't fair.” She threw herself, face down, on the pink comforter.

“Give me the door key, young lady,” Jamie Sue demanded.

Patricia plopped down on the other bed.

Jamie Sue marched straight at Veronica. “I said, give me the key!”

“I won't lock Tricia out again,” she mumbled into her pillow.

“You have not proved to have that much maturity. I want the key now.”

Patricia's blue eyes danced in triumph as she chewed her tongue and watched her pouting sister. Finally, Veronica rolled over and sat up, handing her mother the key. Her feet barely reached the floor.

“Now, what about the dresses? We went through this yesterday. The rose dress is Tricia's, and the beautiful yellow one is yours. You both agreed that when you weren't wearing the dresses, the other one could borrow them,” Jamie Sue lectured.

Veronica's wild bangs masked her forehead. “Tricia won't let me wear the rose dress.”

Jamie Sue turned toward her other daughter. “Patricia?”

“'Nica wanted to wear it to the Volunteer Fireman's Bazaar. I'm going to wear it then.”

“Veronica, you know your sister has first choice at the rose dress.”

“But then I don't have anything to wear! They still haven't found our trunks. I'm not going to wear this same old dress.”

Jamie Sue marched over to Veronica's wardrobe and flung it open. “What about this beautiful yellow dress?”

Veronica's knees bounced up and down as her legs hung over the mattress. “But I can't wear the yellow dress. It's too new!”

“So is the rose one.”

“That's the problem,” Veronica wept. “If we both go out wearing new dresses, everyone will say . . . ‘Oh, you two got new dresses, and Tricia got the pretty one!'”

Jamie Sue pulled the only dress in the wardrobe out and hung it on the door. “This yellow dress is absolutely stunning!”

Veronica frowned at her sister. “But not as stunning as the rose one.”

“Where in the world did you get that idea?”

Veronica curled her lip. “Eachan Moraine said so.”

Jamie Sue stepped over to the window and looked out at the neighborhood. “The boy down the street? He saw your dresses?”

“We told him about them. He said the rose one sounded prettier,” Patricia explained.

“That's only one opinion by someone who's never seen either dress. Little Frank said he likes the yellow one best,” Jamie Sue encouraged.

Veronica threw herself back on the bed and shrieked. “See . . . see? My own brother likes the yellow dress. . . . It must be horrible! When do I get to wear the rose dress?”

“Whenever Patricia isn't wearing it.”

Veronica climbed off the bed. “Can I wear it to church on Sunday?”

“No, I want to wear it on Sunday,” Patricia insisted.

Veronica opened her sister's wardrobe. She ran her fingers along the rose satin dress, the only one in the closet. “Can I wear it to go meet Daddy at the train depot?”

“No, I want to wear it to the depot,” Patricia announced.

“See? I'll never get to wear it!”

“That's all the discussion I want on the subject. This was a test to see how you two would get along with different dresses. You failed. Now, I don't want either of you girls ever locking your door on me again. Is that clear?”

“I'd never do that,” Patricia insisted.

“‘I'd never do that,'” Veronica mimicked.

Jamie Sue plodded down the staircase.
Lord, I know identical twin girls are special in this world. But just as unique is the mother of identical twins. Why is it I keep thinking it will get worse before it gets better? Robert Fortune, if you were home right now, I'd leave you with your darling daughters and go for a long, quiet walk!

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs and retrieved her book when there was one short ring on the telephone. Then another.

Patricia scampered down the stairs behind her. “May I answer the telephone? I've never answered it before.”

“No, it's just for business and emergencies.” Jamie Sue scurried into the kitchen.

“Don't ring central this time when you answer it,” Patricia called out.

“I won't.”

“And don't shout into the mouthpiece,” Patricia insisted.

“I won't shout.”

Jamie Sue scooted to the wall, snatched up the hand telephone, then hollered into the transmitter, “What is it?”

“Not so loud, mother,” Patricia cautioned.

The voice at the other end was relaxed. “Jamie Sue?”

“Yes?”

“This is Abby.”

“This is Jamie Sue,” she croaked.

“You're still a little nervous with a telephone, aren't you?” Abby pressed.

“No . . . eh, yes!” Jamie Sue yelled.

“Is your telephone working? Perhaps I should send Mr. Richards over. It sounds like you're shouting.”

Jamie Sue lowered her voice. “I'm sorry, Abby. What can I do for you? I trust everything is alright?”

“Oh, yes, listen, I just received a shipment of ready-made dresses from New York. Amber helped me unpack the crates, and she says they made a mistake and sent two of the same dress. Naturally, I thought about the twins.”

“We'll be there in a half-hour or so.”

“I'll have Amber warm up some tea. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye . . .” Jamie Sue hollered into the transmitter.

“Mother, hang up the telephone and don't ring central this time. They really dislike that,” Patricia urged.

“Oh, yes.” Jamie Sue replaced the receiver, then backed away from the telephone as if it were a sleeping infant.

“Where are we going?” Patricia asked.

“To Aunt Abby's store to look at some identical dresses.”

“Is Veronica going too?”

“Of course,” Jamie Sue said.

Jamie Sue glanced down at a short list written on a scrap of heavy manila paper. “Tell your sister to hurry up.”

Patricia scampered back to the base of the stairs. “'Nica, Mama says that . . .” After a short pause, a wail, “No! No!”

“What in the world are you fussing about now?” Jamie Sue scooted over toward the stairway.

Patricia bit her lip and pointed to the top of the stairs. “She's wearing my rose dress!”

Veronica strutted down the stairway as if ushered by a prince, the deep rose satin swishing with every step. “You said I could wear it when you weren't wearing it, . . . and you aren't wearing it today.” Her round upturned nose was held high.

“I changed my mind,” Patricia glared. “I want to wear it right now. Take it off!”

Jamie Sue turned and strolled toward the open front door. “You did tell your sister she could wear it, so let's go to Aunt Abby's.”

“But . . . but . . . I can't . . .” Patricia cried as she tugged at her mother's arm. “I can't go out looking like this!”

“And why not?”

“Because . . . I'm not dressed up . . . and . . .” tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Your hair is combed. Your hat is on. Your face is clean. You look fine.”

“I look fine, but 'Nica looks fancy. I can't go out. I'm not going.”

Jamie Sue tugged on her daughter's elbow. “Of course you are. Aunt Abby has some dresses for us to look at, and I need groceries.”

Veronica ambled out into the bright sun of a Dakota June. “It's a lovely day, Mother,” she smirked.

“But . . . wait . . .” Patricia protested. “I'm going upstairs and putting on the yellow dress.”

“You most certainly are not. I've had all of this I can take. We are going downtown.” This time she clutched her daughter's hand and dragged her out to the porch.

“Mother . . . I can't . . .” Patricia whimpered. “I will be so embarrassed, I will die. Please, I beg you, don't do this to me! It will ruin my entire life!”

“Come on, Tricia, don't be so childish,” Veronica prodded from the sidewalk.

Jamie Sue led Patricia out to the street.
Lord, I wonder what it would be like to have only boys?

Robert Fortune glanced up at the broad-shouldered man in the new wool suit. His holster was old, but the gun jammed in it was out-of-the-box new.

“Mr. Fortune, my brother-in-law's a conductor. He said you were looking to hire a couple of train guards.” The man searched the wall behind Robert, as if trying to find a clue to solve a mystery.

Robert tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt as he studied the man. “That's right. What's your name?”

The man looked down at the desk and seemed to be trying to read the scattered papers. “Stillwater Taite. Folks call me Still.”

Mister, look me in the eye if you want this job.
“I heard you were a deputy for Pappy Divide down in Cheyenne.”

“I surely was. Pappy was a good man.” Taite's sagging dark mustache seemed to have biscuit crumbs or dandruff.

Robert waited for the man to look at him.
Taite, I won't hire a man quick to cower.
“Were you working in Cheyenne when Tap Andrews signed on?”

The man's thick brown hair curled out from under his hat, slightly over his large ears. “No sir, that was after my time.”

“Then you weren't there when Pappy got ambushed?” Fortune leaned his elbows on the desk and studied the man's face.
Mister, you're trying a little too hard, . . . but I am glad you want the job.

“I was there. I was the one who drug him out of that saloon after he was shot.”

Robert leaned back against the chair. “I thought it was Andrews that did that.”

“Pappy got ambushed more than once,” Taite replied.

“But he only died once.”

“Oh, that ambush. I'm talkin' about a couple of years earlier. After Pappy recovered, I sort of lost heart and figured I'd go up in the mountains and look for gold. I should have stayed in Cheyenne. I nearly broke my back and my savin's up there. It ain't fit work for any man. You have to be part mule and part beaver to make it wadin' around in them icy streams. No sir, I should have stayed a lawman. But sometimes a man has to move away from it to see how important it is, if you catch my drift.”

“Still, are you a drinkin' man?”

“I don't ever get drunk on the job, if that's what you're askin'.”