Sacred Is the Wind (16 page)

Sabbath McKean had chosen to take his whiskey in the Babylon Saloon. The biblical reference did not bother him and the Babylon boasted the most spacious interior in all of the emporiums along Commerce. More room meant less cigar smoke per square inch. Sabbath liked to breathe between drinks. Unfortunately it appeared most of Bragg's Militia had the same idea, for the tables were ringed with uniformed men and the bar that ran the length of one wall, fifty feet from corner to corner, was jammed with an assortment of soldiers of every shape and size. Sabbath sat with his back to a wall, his slouch hat tilted forward, shading his hawk face. Quick was the temper in him, for Highland blood flowed in his veins and he sat like a king on his own private throne, as if daring any of the men in the Babylon to try to commandeer his table or intrude in any way on his whiskey-soaked solitude. He leaned forward and tilted the half-full bottle before him and measured a healthy portion of Kentucky lightning into his tumbler. He lifted the glass in salute to the voluptuous Greek maidens who cavorted seminaked upon the Elysian fields in a chromolithograph that dominated the wall behind the bar.

Smoke clung to the ceiling beams and choked the illumination from the oil lamps suspended there. Despite the abundance of lamps, an all-pervading soot-gray gloom obscured the room and stung the nostrils and set all eyes to watering. One of the Babylon's birds of pleasure, a woman named Francine LaFleur, danced upon a table while the piano player in the corner played “Rose of Alabam'.” Francine was a better whore than a dancer but her admiring audience didn't seem to mind. Every time she lifted the scarlet satin hem of her dress and kicked out, hopping from one foot to another and showing off her legs and thick thighs encased in a stocking mesh, a chorus of deep-throated cheers would raise high the roof-beams.

One of the soldiers, unable to restrain himself, tipped her off the table and into his arms. The prostitute bore the man to the floor in a tumble of petticoats and trousers. The men surrounding the struggling couple cheered and toasted Francine. At last the militiaman staggered to his feet and with Francine LaFleur in his arms and his nose all but buried in her ample bosom the stalwart lover threaded his way through the crowded room and laboriously climbed the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.

“Sleep well, brave laddie,” Sabbath muttered, and drained his glass. He had rumbled with Francine once upon a time and counted himself lucky that he lived to tell the tale. “That woman enjoys her work with a vengeance,” he added with a chuckle. A shadow slipped into his periphery, spoiling his solitude. Sabbath greeted Tom Bragg with a glare. The scout's reddish eyebrows furrowed forward like enormous caterpillars crawling toward the bridge of his nose. Tom Bragg wavered unsteadily. The hilt of his saber managed to gleam even in this smoky den. A pistol shot caused Tom to jump. In the corner, the piano player took a Yankee suggestion and quit the “Rose of Alabam'” for a medley of “John Brown's Body” and “On the Banks of the Ohio.” Sabbath glanced over and recognized Hec Knowles, Spike Cutter, and young Dickey Rutledge in a tight circle around the hapless pianist. Rutledge holstered his still-smoking revolver. He loosed a war whoop and began stomping and clapping. He grabbed the nearest girl, a mousy tart barely sixteen, and began to dance while the man she had been flirting with, a plough-boy judging from his overalls and coat, took a step toward the girl, looked at Knowles and Cutter, then thought better of the idea; he shrugged and backed down and headed for the bar.

“Well, scout, you really earned your money. Let those savages get clean away,” Tom said. He leaned forward. His hands splayed out on the table as he steadied himself. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

Sabbath groaned and shook his head. He grabbed his bottle and leaned back against the wall, relinquishing the table to the sour-looking youth. Marley shouldered through the crowd.

“What's the matter?” he said, eyes shifting from Jubal's brother to McKean.

“You make a good mother sheep,” Sabbath muttered. Marley reddened. He clamped his teeth down on the stub of a cigar. “Your lamb here is gonna be sick,” Sabbath continued. Tom pulled away as Marley reached for him.

“Take your hands off me,” the youth snapped.

“These hands is gonna tuck you in bed,” Marley said. “And maybe bust your chops so's you'll stay put.”

“Nothing wrong with me. I just need to relieve myself.” Tom retreated a step, located the side door leading to the alley. He turned to Sabbath. “We'll finish our discussion later.” The young Easterner shoved his way past Marley.

“I wonder if I need to stand by and make sure he don't piss down his boots,” Marley said as he watched Tom move unsteadily to the alley door.

“Might help 'em to fit,” Sabbath retorted. “'Cause right now he doesn't fit them a'tall.”

“They never will,” Marley said. “Them boots belong to Colonel Bragg.”

“You'd follow Jubal Bragg to hell,” the scout observed.

“We all got to follow someone,” Marley said. “Or something.” He sat on the edge of the table and held out a glass for Sabbath to fill. “How are you gettin' to hell, McKean?”

A knife in the shadows, moonlight on steel, on the burnished face of a man who had come to avenge himself. James Broken Knife lifted the blade in his hand and braced himself against the rough wood of the wall behind him. He watched without recognizing Tom Bragg as the youth made his way out of the Babylon Saloon and sought out the darkness at the rear of the alley to relieve himself against the side of a rain barrel. The Southern Cheyenne swallowed. His throat felt dry, he ran his tongue around the stale whiskey taste inside his mouth and started forward. A rising wind moaned as it stirred the dust in the alley. James Broken Knife's solemn face was a portrait of wavering determination. There simply hadn't been enough courage in the one bottle he had finished. A man needed more, especially a man of conscience. He hated Panther Burn for the way he had turned Rebecca's head. But enough to kill? Rebecca had never professed her love to James. But she would have, he reminded himself, given time. Time was all she had needed. He had seen her ride off with the Northerner. A step, two steps, closer now to the man at the rear of the alley. James tightened his grip on the knife. Sweat beaded his forehead, stung his eyes, streamed down his cheeks.
Hurry. Hurry before the white man turns.
He wiped his forehead on his shirt sleeve and realized he had lost his hat again. Strange to be worried about a hat now, at a moment like this. He was almost within arm's reach.
No. This is wrong. I cannot.
James paused, the realization of what he was about to do seeping at last into full-blown perspective. Kill a man, like this? No! He retreated, confused but unable, no, unwilling to murder. A shard of glass from a discarded bottle cracked underfoot as a cloud scudding free of the moon momentarily flooded the alley with bone-colored light. Tom swung around at the sound and saw the Indian standing directly behind him, the knife held away from his body, and to Tom's thinking, poised to strike.

“God in heaven!” the youth gasped, and reached for his saber.

“No, white man,” James hissed. But Tom Bragg had already caught the hilt at his side and the long curved blade gleamed wickedly as it slid from its scabbard with a rasp of metal.

“Murdering bastard,” Tom snarled. The blade of his saber caught, he jerked it loose and slashed awkwardly at the Southern Cheyenne, who leaped inside the saber's reach and tried to shove the youth back against the wall. Both men, unsteady on their feet, tumbled against the rain barrel. Tom fell backward and with his free hand on the Indian's throat dragged James Broken Knife over on top of him. Both men landed heavily, the white man underneath. Tom gasped as James worked loose of his grasp. The brave crawled out of reach of the saber. Tom groaned and pulled himself to his feet. In the bone-white glare James could see a knife hilt protruding from the Easterner's chest. The Indian stared dumbly down at his own empty hands.

“He's killed me. He's killed me!” Tom shouted, and staggered toward the side door of the Babylon. “Someone … help!”

“No. I didn't mean …” James crawled to his feet, panic welling in his breath, and ran as the youth collapsed. The side door of the Babylon opened and noise spilled into the alley. Two men in the uniform of Bragg's Militia froze as they spied Tom Bragg's sprawled body. James Broken Knife collided with the men at a dead run and knocked them aside. He cleared the mouth of the alley as the men behind him began to cry out an alarm. They had glimpsed enough of their assailant to know him for an Indian. That and the sight of one of their own lying dead in the alley were enough to sober them.

Once in the street, James acted on instinct. There was a hitching rail nearby with half a dozen horses tethered before a water trough. He crossed the distance in seconds and leaped into the saddle of the closest horse as one of the men he had collided with emerged from the alley, gun in hand.

“Hold it, you red devil,” the soldier called out. James tore the reins free and swung the animal around. A revolver roared, a lead slug burned the Indian's neck as it whined past. James whipped the startled gelding into a gallop down the street. Gunshots rippled on the night air, but James didn't turn to see. He kept himself low in the saddle, his cheeks whipped by the plunging mane of the brown gelding he had stolen. Other white men stumbled into the street at the sound of all the commotion. Lighted windows, startled faces, barely heard voices—all rushed past as in a nightmare. Horse and rider approached the end of Commerce, and James drove his heels into the gelding's flanks, urging the animal to even greater effort. Figures darted from a side street leading over to Main. A pack of boys on a nightly excursion had come running at the first sound of gunplay. The youths held up at the sight of the madly fleeing Indian on horseback. But one boy of ten years, quicker than the others, tried to leap across the path of the galloping horseman. The toe of his boot caught in the churned earth and the boy tumbled beneath the plunging hooves. James felt the collision; the gelding lost stride and nearly fell before regaining its balance. James heard the screams of the boys, then nothing but the rushing wind, as the town of Castle Rock slipped past. Ahead lay a long night's ride.

No one had caught a long enough look at him to identify him as the soldier's assailant. And the knife would fix the blame on Panther Burn.

May 17, 1865.

Tomorrow I will lead my men back south. Tom really hasn't had time to enjoy the comforts Denver has to offer. I am excited by the prospect of bringing him into business. He is a bright lad, well-educated. Bragg Bros. Freighting. I like the sound. Bragg Land and Title. And then there is our interest in a railroad linking Denver City to the Union Pacific in Cheyenne. Tom has studied engineering and though he found bookwork and the life of a student not to his liking, my partners and I shall certainly make use of his knowledge on the subject, which is certainly superior to my own or for that matter to any of the gentlemen in the consortium. I am happy—

Jubal leaned back from the desk in his hotel room. The gunshots distracted him. No doubt some wild celebration. He hoped it wasn't his men. But then, again, they were hard men who did a hard job. The townspeople of Castle Rock would simply have to put up with a little noise and one more sleepless night. It was a small price to pay for the safety of their loved ones. And it certainly had been a successful if relatively bloodless campaign. Jubal decided he would have to add a bit more drama to his account when he reported on his latest exploits to Bill Byers at the
Rocky Mountain News.
Jubal enjoyed seeing his name in print, and as Byers told him, the militia made good copy for the Denver paper. Jubal listened, noted that even as the gunfire ceased, there continued a good deal of disturbance. In fact, it seemed to be on the increase. He studied his journal a moment, tried to recapture his thoughts, then sighed and patted the leather-bound diary, and reaching out, took a final sip of brandy. Obviously his men were getting too carried away.

“I better put in an appearance,” he said aloud, and pushed away from the desk. He stood, patted the wrinkles out of his trousers, donned his blue coat, and fastened the shiny brass buttons. He placed his plumed hat on his head and adjusted the brim so it sat at a rakish angle, and thus properly attired, left his room. His footsteps were muffled by the carpeted hallway. He reached the stairway and started down. The lobby of the Hippolyte was empty, for the hour was late and the hotel's residents had either retired for the night or were celebrating in one of the establishments along Commerce. Only the night clerk, Andrew Jackson Goyne, stood at the window staring out at the town. Padded wooden benches lined the walls; couches and overstuffed Windsor chairs, though a bit on the tattered side, lent an aura of elegance to the lobby. Smoke trailed from a pipe firmly clasped in the night clerk's mouth. And the smell of tobacco and cherry bark mingled with the scent of leather and polished wood. The clerk took notice of the footsteps on the stairs. Goyne turned, revealing a pinned-up left sleeve, legacy of the charge at Chattanooga when Federal troops had swept the Rebels from Missionary Ridge. The clerk saluted, out of habit. Any uniform and every uniform he saluted, as long as it belonged to an officer and as long as it was blue.

“My men are a little on the wild side tonight.” Jubal chuckled, returning the salute.

“'Tain't celebratin', Colonel Bragg. Appears to be trouble of some kind. Cod Tatum come by lookin' for Dr. Schaefer. Me and the doctor have us a game of chess now and then. He don't sleep much and the game helps to keep me awake. Before Schaefer took off, Cod said how some Injun's gone and stabbed one of your boys, stole a horse, and skedaddled. Rode down one of Widow Kierby's boys, little Alfie, scarcely ten years old. Broke his neck. Of course that's Cod talking, and so who knows. I mean, Henry Schaefer's the doctor.” Goyne inhaled, then blew a pungent cloud of tobacco that hid his features as he resumed his vigil at the hotel window. “Somebody's coming.”