Sunday's Colt & Other Stories (7 page)

“I'll watch it close,” Bennet said.

Print was satisfied with the answer. He squinted as he tried to recognize two cowboys going into the Reeves' House Café. “Who's them fellers over there?”

Bennet looked and shook his head. “Joe Sparrow and Ben Tate.”

Olive tensed. “Joe Sparrow? What's that grub line rider doing in town?”

“Looking for work, I guess. They need some men to work the pens when the cattle come in.”

Olive shook his head and downed another glass. “Can't we do better than that?”

“Most of the good men are working,” Bennet said as he stepped past the bar and gazed out the window. “I don't think any solid outfit will use either one of them, but we'll need men to load out those cattle and the pickings are slim.”

Olive looked back to his bottle. “I guess so. Watch that bastard. He's no good. Don't lend him any money no matter what his story. He still owes me twelve dollars.” He poured another glass. “I need to get over to the livery.”

“You want I should go for you?” Uncle Sam asked.

Olive shook his head. “No, I got to do it myself. We're driving several good mounts down from Logan County as replacement stock for them cowboys. I need to talk to Travers myself. We probably need to get something to eat. I need to clear my head a bit.”

“You want to eat now?” Sam asked.

Print hesitated. “No, let's wait until Sparrow leaves before we go over there. I don't want to try to keep my dinner down and listen to that worthless bastard run his mouth.” He poured another drink. “Besides, I promised Louisa that I'd steer clear of trouble.”

Sam smiled as he recognized the irony. There was a time when Print Olive would have gone straight over to the café and demanded his twelve dollars at the point of a gun. A promise to Louisa would have meant nothing then. “
Times sure do change,
” he thought. He thought it but he didn't say it.

“Looks like he's coming over here,” Bennet said as he recognized Sparrow and Tate leaving the café and walking toward the saloon.

Olive shook his head and poured another drink in silence.

Sparrow bolted through the door with Tate immediately behind. He was a tall, fair-haired, thin man in his thirties. “Goddamned cheapskates. Seventy cents a day to work our asses off loading them cattle. I got me half a mind to ride out.” He held up when he recognized Olive. “Well, I'll be damned. How are you doing, I. P.?”

Olive was friendly but reserved. “I'm all right, Joe. How are you?”

Sparrow blustered and made for the bar, talking as he went. “Them goddamned cheapskates only want to pay me seventy cents a day to load cattle. Goddamned cheapskates!” He thumped the bar impatiently for a glass.

“Seems like seventy cents a day ain't bad money,” Tom Bennet said as he brought the whisky. “Hell, it beats cowboy wages.”

“Then why the hell don't you do it and I'll run this bar and tell fellows how to conduct their business?”

Sam anxiously cut his eyes to Olive. He relaxed when he saw Print smile wryly, shake his head, and pour another drink.

“I was only saying that seventy cents a day ain't bad money for loading cattle,” Tom apologized.

“Well, you keep your goddamned opinions to yourself,” Sparrow snapped as Bennet poured their drinks. “I don't need to take any shit off'n the likes of you.”

Bennet poured the drinks and accepted the money.

“Sons a-bitches around here. I got me a good mind just to ride out,” Sparrow muttered as he downed his whisky.

“You owe me twelve dollars,” Olive said softly.

“What? What's that you said?” Sparrow asked.

Print turned in his chair. His black eyes whisky-glistened. “You owe me twelve dollars.”

“So what if I do? I'll pay you.”

“I wouldn't think that a debtor like you could afford to be so particular about his work. And you ain't a patch on Tom Bennet's ass, so you watch your mouth.”

Sparrow's posture weakened. “I know I owe you, I. P. I don't know what that has to do with this.”

Print's frame trembled as he struggled to control his anger. “You come into my business a-bitching about having to do an honest day's work for a day's wages—wages that most men would be proud to take—and how you think you ought to just ride out, and owing me twelve dollars and talking to my man like that. Jesus damn! You are one worthless son-of-a-bitch!”

Sam wanted to go to Print and settle him down, but he didn't. When he was drinking there was no point in trying to intervene until after he had said his piece. It would only make him angrier.

Sparrow's eyes cut to Print's right hand to see if he had a gun in it. He spoke quietly, almost apologetically. “I guess I have a right to an opinion.”

Print remained in his chair. The anger was subsiding but his eyes remained black. “Not in here you don't. You'll show some respect by God, or get the hell out.”

Sparrow nodded. “I don't want no trouble, I. P. I was just a-thinking out loud.”

Print looked at his glass and reached for his bottle. “That's the trouble with you, Joe. You don't think much at all. You just run your mouth.”

Sparrow turned to the bar and downed his whisky. He stood quietly and allowed his anger to grow. “It's easy for you to talk down to me, ain't it? Especially, since you got your gun nigger watching my back.”

Bennet stiffened and stepped away from Sparrow. Tate stepped back in the other direction. Sam's eyes cut to Print fearfully before he remembered that he wasn't armed.

Print sat stiffly. His features hardened as he digested what Sparrow had said. “You think I need anyone's help to take down a dreg like you?”

Sparrow knew he had gone too far. He held his tongue and shook his head.

“Maybe we ought to be getting something to eat, Mister Print,” Sam said.

Print did not answer. His cold black stare bore through Sparrow's back.

“We used to be good friends, I. P.,” Sparrow finally said. “Hell, I used to ride for you. I don't want no trouble.”

Print seemed to relax. He cut his eyes to Sam. “Maybe we had ought to get something to eat.”

Sam nodded and started for the door.

Print stood and glared at Sparrow's back. “The next time I see you, you better have that twelve dollars. If not, it will be the last time.”

Sparrow nodded and looked down at the bar.

Sam waited and followed Print out the door.

They ordered their meal and ate in silence. Print was absorbed in his thoughts.

Sam was sipping his after-dinner coffee when Print sighed. “I guess I got carried away in there.”

Sam looked up and nodded. “Well, Mister Print, Joe Sparrow ain't much of a man.”

“You'd think I'd learn. Getting on the off side over a dreg like Sparrow isn't worth my worry. Hell, I'll never see that twelve dollars and I know it.”

“I wouldn't worry about it too much,” Sam said. “I doubt you'll ever see him again. If you do, he'll damn sure keep his place.”

“It ain't the twelve dollars, anyway. I just can't abide a man that won't earn his keep and expects everyone else to pay his dues.”

Sam studied him. Print was sobering and the meanness was leaving. “Yes, sir, I suppose you're right.”

“Damn foolish for a man to make a threat like that when he isn't heeled.”

“He wouldn't have done nothing, Mister Print. I was watching him.”

“That's my point. You shouldn't have to watch a man for me. If I ain't gonna go armed, I shouldn't talk like a man who is. That don't make me much better than Joe Sparrow.”

Sam set his cup on the table with a clank. “There's a big difference between you and Joe Sparrow. You don't need to run yourself down like that.”

Print smiled weakly. “Thank you for that. I think we'll just head home in the morning. This damned place can run itself. I need to go home and be with Louisa.”

Sam nodded. “I know she'd like that.”

Print smiled. “She'd have me for breakfast if she knew about this Sparrow deal.”

Sam grinned and nodded. “Yes, sir, I think she would for a fact.”

They were up early and met with John Travers when he opened the livery. Print was in especially good spirits. He laughed and joked with Travers and complimented him on the appearance of the livery and the corrals.

As they left he handed Sam a five dollar gold piece. “Go down and buy our tickets. I've got some business at the dry goods, then I'll say goodbye to Tom. We'll have breakfast before heading back to Dodge.”

Sam nodded and started for the train station.

“And, Sam!” Print called.

Sam turned to see Olive smiling broadly.

“Thank you for last night. Louisa would have been as proud of you as she would have been put out with me.”

Sam grinned. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He turned for the station.

Joe Sparrow watched them from the window of the Trail City Saloon. He had been up all night drinking. “There's Olive. He'll probably come over here next.”

Tate was trying to sleep it off in a table chair and growled an incoherent response.

Tom Bennet poured coffee into two cups and set them on the bar. “You better get out of here, Joe. I'm sure you don't want to run into Print Olive this morning.”

“How many men has he killed?” Sparrow asked as he watched Print go into the general store.

Bennet shook his head. “Don't know for sure. Some say fifteen. I've heard counts as high as twenty.”

Sparrow nodded. “And he wants to make me number twenty-one.”

“Drink your coffee, Joe, and get out of here. Chances are that Print has forgotten all about it now that he's sober.”

“Threaten my life, will he? Just who the hell does he think he is?” Joe gave a cup to Tate and sipped his own. “What's he think he's gonna do? Lynch me like Mitchell and Ketchum in Nebraska? Hell, burn my corpse so's not even my family can recognize me?”

“I'd be careful about that kind of talk,” Bennet said. “Olive won't stand for it. He did his time for that. Those bastards murdered his brother. You will end up in a hole in the ground for sure.”

Tate finished the coffee then set his cup on the table. “Olive's coming across the street now. We better go out the back door, Joe.”

Joe shook his head. “Where you going? You lost your nerve?”

Tate nodded. “Damned straight. I don't want nothing to do with no showdown with Print Olive.”

“Come on, Joe,” Bennet said. “We don't want no trouble this morning.”

Print stepped through the door and smiled when he saw Joe. “I was wanting to talk to you.”

“The hell you say!” Sparrow yelled as he drew his revolver and fired three times.

Print clutched his chest, stumbled back to the doorway, and slid to the floor.

“Oh, my God,” Tom Bennet yelled. “What have you done?”

Joe Sparrow walked calmly across the room and looked down at Olive.

Print sat upright against the doorway. He looked up at Sparrow. “Oh, Joe, don't murder me.”

Joe looked down without emotion, cocked his revolver, aimed carefully, and put a round into Print's forehead.

Tate ran past his partner and through the door. “Come on. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Sparrow nodded and followed Tate to their horses. They mounted and rode out of town.

***

Sam and Tom Bennet waited by the boxcar as men loaded the crude coffin containing Print's body for the trip back to Dodge City.

“There'd be several of us from Trail City at the funeral but that herd is due in any day,” Bennet said. “Tell Mrs. Olive that, would you?”

“Sure, Tom, I'll tell her that. I know she'll understand.”

“I suppose she'll want to sell out of this Trail City deal.”

Sam shook his head. “I can't say what she'll want to do. I'm sure she'll say.”

Bennet watched them slide the coffin into the boxcar. “I sure wish Print had been armed. Sparrow would have never took that last shot if he had.”

Sam nodded, uncomfortable with the image.

“You know Sparrow will claim self-defense what with that threat Print made and all. And with Print's reputation, he just might get off.”

Sam stepped up into the boxcar and sighed. “I know. That fellow shot Mister Print for what he used to be. Not for what he is.”

“How was he supposed to know that?” Bennet asked as he handed Sam his bag.

Sam turned his eyes for one last look at Trail City. “I don't rightly know. I guess maybe he wouldn't.”

The crew slid the door partially closed, the train jerked to a start, and Bennet waved goodbye.

For quite a while Sam sat by the coffin and watched the countryside as it drifted by. As the train neared the Aubrey Cut-Off, he put his hand on the top of Print's coffin and gently gave it a pat. He shook his head and said softly, “Twelve dollars.”

As the train rolled on toward Dodge City, Sam sat by the coffin and wept.

Showdown Along the Cimarron

I

John McKnight stepped to the top of a sandy ridge and gazed upon the valley of the Cimarron River. He paused to catch a breath, placed the butt of his flintlock long rifle on the ground between his feet, tipped his low-crowned black felt hat to the back of his head, and enjoyed a gentle south breeze against his matted, sweat-soaked brown hair.

Tom James groaned as he led two packhorses to the crest of the dune. He scanned the broad, lush floodplain and with a sweeping gesture of his right arm, silently announced a successful crossing.

Jeemy Wilson, the next to top the crest with his packhorses, shouted a war whoop of satisfaction as he stared upon the shallow sluggish waters of the Cimarron. The graybeard had correctly predicted a two-day passage across the plain between the Arkansas and Salt Rivers.

“Looks good, don't it?” McKnight asked in his customarily quiet manner.

James grinned as he placed the butt of his rifle into the dirt and assumed a twin pose to his partner. “Couldn't look better.”

Jeemy Wilson squinted and pointed a gnarled finger toward far white bluffs across the valley. “I'll bet ya them's buffalo over there to the northwest.”

The rest of the brigade members topped the dune leading their pack animals toward the bottoms. John James was Tom's younger brother. David Kirkee was a bit older, in his thirties, and the smallest of the men. Bill Shearer, Alex Howard, Ben Potter, and John Ivy were men in their twenties. Frederick Howard was older and had a family in Missouri.

John McKnight was the managing partner of a profitable St. Louis trading company known as McKnight & Brady. He had received word a year earlier that his brother, Robert, was alive in a prison near Santa Fe. Ten years earlier, Robert led a trading expedition to Santa Fe, but the party vanished. John intended to find his brother, buy his freedom, and return home. Tom James and Fred Howard were old friends who needed a chance to make up for failed trading ventures along the Mississippi. If all went well, the brigade would reap a fortune from the twelve thousand dollars worth of goods purchased in St. Louis by James and McKnight.

The last man over the ridge was the interpreter, a Spaniard named Francois Maesaw. He was looked upon with suspicion and avoided by all except McKnight and Jeemy Wilson. When he wasn't advising McKnight, Maesaw kept to himself.

Approaching his seventieth year, Jeemy Wilson was of that breed of men known as “borderers.” Of Scotch decent and over six feet tall, he chose to live on the frontier as civilization pushed him west. His shoulder-length white hair and chest-length beard surrounded sharp features and crystal blue eyes. A stern glare from Wilson reminded lesser men of the visage of God in his wrath. He laughed and joked with the younger men, advised the older, and treated the Spaniard as an equal. He carried a sawed-off fusel loaded with tear shot rather than a common long rifle favored by the others. A short-handled, single-bladed ax seemed to live in his right hand. When McKnight's keelboat could advance no farther up the shallow Arkansas, Wilson suggested burying the heavy goods and going overland using Osage ponies as packhorses.

“If them are buffs, we could stand to jerk a little meat,” Tom James said. “We should make camp and lay in some supplies before going any farther.”

“Ought to have our backs against a wall or at the top of the ridge,” Wilson said. “I'd like a place where we can fort up, if need be.”

As the trio led the way, the others followed as soon as they had their fill of the brackish river water. The valley was littered with buffalo manure and laced with narrow trails. Salt deposits were so thick that the men could knock off pure chunks with their knives. The herd was skittish and maintained a distance from the brigade.

Wilson reasoned that Indians were hunting the beasts. He advised the men to take a few, jerk the meat, and move on as soon as possible. By nightfall they had skinned two calves, enjoyed fresh roasts, sweetbreads, kidneys, and liver, and rested comfortably along the shore of the Cimarron.

Shortly after dawn, Ben Potter shook McKnight awake. Potter's urgency caused Tom James to jump from his own bedroll.

“Comanches are after the horses,” Potter whispered hoarsely.

“How many?” James asked as he peered across the horizon toward the pony graze.

“Hell, I bet there's a hundred or more,” Wilson said as he joined the others.

In the distance, a large band of riders could be seen hazing the livestock. Most were dressed only in breechcloths and leggings.

James primed the pan of his rifle. “If they get those horses, we're done for.”

“They may be willing to talk if we can get their attention,” Wilson said. James considered the suggestion, nodded, and ran for his goods. He drew forth a new artillery sword and buckled the scabbard about his waist. He dug out a United States flag and waved the banner from the barrel of his rifle. The Indians broke off from the ponies and approached at full gallop.

As the braves approached, McKnight spoke calmly. “Put your pieces in order, but keep the muzzles down. We want no fight, if we can avoid it. Tom, you palaver and Maesaw can interpret into Spanish if need be.”

The Spaniard stepped to James's side as the warriors approached. The pair advanced to the front of the group, hands held palms forward to signify peace. The Comanche braves encircled the brigade without dismounting.

One of the leaders was of slim build with a ruined left eye. The other, a heavy shouldered man with a broad mouth, carried a newly decorated Mexican smoothbore musketoon. Neither of the men spoke immediately. Each gave the small group of whites a serious visual inspection before any attempt at communication. Finally, with sharp movements, the smaller man gave a set of signs.

James turned toward Maesaw and waited for his translation. The Spaniard watched carefully and nodded a reply.

“What does he want?” James asked.

“Gifts,” Maesaw answered in accented English. “He wants gifts for crossing their hunting lands and taking their buffalo.”

“How much?” James asked.

Maesaw smiled grimly. “All he can get.”

“How much do you think?” James asked as he turned toward McKnight.

McKnight studied the strength of the force. There were at least a hundred riders armed with Mexican flint fusels, spears, and bows. “I think we should be generous, Tom. I doubt this is a time for bargaining.”

“Ask them to step down from their ponies and we'll work something out,” James told Maesaw.

“I doubt they will do that. These men live on the backs of their horses. They will not step down from their mounts except for a friend,” Maesaw said.

James turned toward Wilson and Howard. “Get into the packs. Give them mirrors, ammunition, knives, and the cheap calico.”

As the men gathered the offerings, the one-eyed chief talked angrily with the other.

“What's his problem?” McKnight asked.

“He says we are spies for the Osage. He wants to put us under now and take the goods,” Maesaw answered grimly.

“Tell him we're not. Tell him we bought the ponies from the Osage,” James said.

“I think we should wait, señor. The other chief, the one called Big Star, is telling One-eye that it would not be good to kill us. He is saying that we are willing to pay and they should honor our offerings.”

“I like that feller already,” Wilson said quietly.

The chiefs bantered back and forth for several minutes as the men assembled their offerings. The more they debated, the more goods James ordered from the packs.

The men assembled three thousand dollars worth of merchandise: balls, powder, mirrors, knives, hatchets, bolts of cloth, and pots and pans. A line of goods was assembled between the chiefs and the traders. Finally, Big Star waved off the other and nodded. One-eye cursed bitterly and led a faction of warriors away. Once One-eye was out of sight, Big Star slipped from his pony and advanced toward James. The big Indian nodded and spoke in a friendly fashion.

“He says that we pay him great honor. He asks us to accompany him to his village and be his guest,” Maesaw said.

“What do you think?” James asked McKnight.

McKnight smiled feebly and nodded. “I don't see that we have much choice. I certainly don't want to insult this character.”

Wilson spat. “I wouldn't trust him, Captain. These Comanches are a funny lot.”

“What do you suggest we tell him?” James asked.

“Tell him you've got to go. Tell him you got the pox. Tell him you love him so damned much you'll give him the whole kit and caboodle. Hell, tell him anything and let's get the hell out of here,” Wilson answered.

“It's a long walk back to Arkansas,” Frederick Howard sighed.

“A long walk, or a slow roast,” Jeemy said harshly.

“If we tried to leave now, I doubt we would get far,” Maesaw said. “Even if this one allows us to pass, I doubt the other would let us go far.”

“I ain't going to give it all up now,” Tom James said. “Maybe we can do some trading. We've got too much invested to simply walk away.”

McKnight nodded. “We ain't got any choice. If I thought we could walk away from this and get out with our hair, I'd do it. It appears to me that our only option is to go with these fellows and try some trading. If we insult him now, we don't stand a chance.”

The brigade members nodded and voiced support. All Jeemy Wilson could manage was a disgusted spit into the earth and a soft curse.

II

The traders and their escort entered the camp amid howls of derision, noisy conversation, barking dogs, and bawling children. Throngs of Comanche men, women, and children gathered at the edge of a substantial village meandering through the small creek-fed valley northwest of the Cimarron floodplain. Shallow canyon walls and a spring-fed stream provided protection from the elements. A low, flat-topped hill dominated the center of the site.

Big Star proudly displayed the artillery sword above his head as he led the parade through the village toward a large tipi, situated near the mound. An elderly chief wrapped in a white bear skin stepped from the tipi, mounted a pony, and haughtily waited to accept his guests.

McKnight, James, and Maesaw stepped to the front and gazed up at the imposing figure of the chief. He moved slowly and spoke with grand gestures.

After Big Star spoke to the chief, Maesaw translated the introduction. “This is Bear Shield. He is the main chief of the village. Big Star has presented you as honored guests and…” The Spaniard paused soberly.

“And what?” McKnight asked.

The Spaniard faced the partners glumly, reluctant to complete the translation. “And, says that you have brought many gifts to honor him.”

“Hell's election,” Wilson cursed from a few feet behind.

James cut his eyes toward McKnight. “Before they're through, we'll be lucky to leave with the shirts on our backs.”

“It's the hair on my head that worries me,” Wilson said.

McKnight smiled in cynical frustration. “I wonder how many chiefs we're going to have to pay off to get out of this mess?”

“Damn, John, they're robbing us blind,” James said.

“We were willing to walk away from the whole thing a few miles back. If we don't pay up, we're in a worse mess than we were before,” McKnight said.

James shook his head before turning toward Howard. “Bring up your ponies, Frederick. Break out the goods for our honored host.”

Howard nodded and led his packhorses to James's position. James unwrapped the lashings roughly and emptied the contents for Bear Shield's examination.

“There goes another thousand dollars' worth,” James said as he stepped to McKnight's side.

Bear Shield examined the trade goods and cheap bolts of cloth. He spoke quietly to Big Star and addressed Maesaw in equally reserved fashion.

Maesaw nodded and turned a tortured expression toward McKnight and James. “Bear Shield says that his people will welcome the gifts warmly. He feels that the chief of the Kamanashe should be entitled to a special gift, as was Big Star.”

Tom James's face took on the appearance of a red-hot boiler about to explode. McKnight stepped in front of his partner and turned his back toward the chiefs. James relaxed as McKnight's shadow crossed his form.

“How about the velvet?” McKnight asked.

James grimaced and bit his lip. “Sure, why the hell not?”

“Why don't you go back and get it? I'll try to get Maesaw to reason with them,” McKnight said.

Maesaw was uneasy. His attention drifted nervously between the anxious brigade commander and the sullen chief.

“You know, Maesaw, we don't have much left. Can't we try something else?” McKnight asked in as reserved and pleasant a manner as he could muster.

“Señor McKnight, we are at their mercy. I fear that if we refuse them, we will be dead men within the hour.”

McKnight listened stoically. He knew Maesaw was no coward and his answer was not the result of cowardly logic. He turned to Jeemy Wilson.

“Well, what do you think, old timer? You've dealt with these Indians before,” McKnight asked.

The buckskinner set his eyes toward the ground. “If they was Kiowas or Arapahos, you might try getting tough and bluffing your way through. But, these Comanches are a strange lot. I fear you'll end up giving them the whole shebang and they'll still show fight.”

Tom James presented a roll of a hundred and seventy yards of red velvet cloth. Bear Shield felt the bolt reverently with the tips of his fingers. The master politician smiled and swelled with flamboyant generosity. He spoke boldly so the whole of the community could hear.

A warrior rode his pony to the bolt and lifted it from James's arms. He took hold of the cut end of the cloth and tossed the bolt into the air, riding away at a gallop. In seconds the red velvet was being unrolled as the populace eagerly descended upon it.