The Long Trail Home (15 page)

“That can change, you know.”

“You may be right. But probably I won't change overnight.”

“The Lord is full of constant surprises, Sam. Look at me and Amanda today. Promise to join us for lunch tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir. I'll be here. You've got a fine family, Mr. Edgington—a mighty fine family.”

The yellow-haired waitress at Leighton Hotel Restaurant lingered next to Sam Fortune's table. Her long, white bib apron was starched stiff and bleached white. The high collar on her dress was unbuttoned to the top of the apron. “Do you live here in Cheyenne?” she asked.

Sam popped the last bite of biscuit into his mouth as he glanced up. He attempted to smile and chew while he replied. “No, ma'am. I'm just passin' through.”

“I know what you mean.” Her finger traced the back of his oak chair. “I'm just passin' through too. I'm on my way to San Francisco, but I only had enough funds for a ticket to Cheyenne City, so I took this job to save up for a through ticket.”

He sliced into a thick beef chop, then stabbed a bite with his knife and held it over his plate. “How long you been here?”

“Since Christmas . . . ,” she sighed. She put her hands on the small of her back and stretched, drawing her shoulders back and her chest forward, then relaxed. “I can't seem to get ahead. But I'm ready to leave, that's for sure. The rich folks don't give me the time of day in this town, and the drifters and bums . . . well, they don't know how to treat a girl decent. Say, what direction are you headed?”

“I'm not sure. Probably west.” He plopped a bite of gravy drenched chop into his mouth. The gravy tasted a tad too salty, but rich.

She circled to the far side of the table and faced him. “Have you ever been to San Francisco?”

“No, ma'am.”

She leaned forward, with her arms on the edge of the round table. “Some people say it's even more wonderful than Paris. How about you, mister? Would you like to go to San Francisco?”

He picked meat out of his lower teeth with his thumbnail then whacked off another bite. “I hadn't given it much thought.”

Part of her blond hair came out of the combs and flopped over her eye. “Say, are you goin' out to that dance at Fort Russell?”

He surveyed the mound of potatoes on his plate. “When is that?”

She stood up straight. “Tonight, from eight o'clock until midnight.”

“I'm in town alone, so I haven't considered a dance,” Sam replied.

“I bet I was asked to go to that dance a dozen times, but most of 'em were too drunk to remember me the next day. I like to dance, but not that much. If a gentleman like you asked me to the dance—well, that's one thing—but not some whiskey bum.”

She scooted over so her hips were within inches of his elbow. “Say, neither of us got someone to go to the dance with. We ought to jist partner up for the dance. You interested, Mr. . . . Mr.—”

He looked up at her anxious brown eyes. “Call me Sam.”

She smiled, revealing a slight overbite. “My name's Delphia. Everyone calls me Delfy.”

He reached up and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And I'm pleased to meet you.” She refused to let go of his hand. “What do you say? Shall we go to the dance?”

He studied her eyes until she looked away. “Delfy, I'm not kiddin' when I say that's the best offer I've had in years. But I had a tough day, and I'm so tired I'd embarrass you on the dance floor.” He tugged his hand from hers.

She laid her hand on his shoulder. “We don't have to go to the dance, Sam. The Atlantic-Pacific Club has a six-piece orchestra and some quiet tables that have fancy dividers jist like them deluxe houses in Denver.”

“You're tryin' too hard, Delfy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Darlin', I'm wrestlin' with some big problems in my mind. I've got to get them settled before I do anythin' else. Any other night in my life, I'd probably be carryin' you right up the stairs . . . but you found me at a tough moment.”

“You got someone else in town?”

“Nope. I'll make you a pledge, Delfy. If I dance with anyone in Cheyenne, it will be with you. And if I nuzzle up in a back table at the Atlantic-Pacific, it will be with you, darlin'.”

“You promise?”

“Yep.”

“Do you keep your promises?”

“Always.”

“OK.” She stepped back from the table. “I'll quit pesterin' you. I've got to tell you, Sam, you are a smooth talker. I've been turned down before. Not often, but ever' once in a while. But I ain't never had someone make me feel good about myself when he turned me down.”

Sam had just taken a second helping of boiled red beets when the well-dressed man with a badge walked over to his table. Sam noticed a twitch in his right eye.

“Are you Sam Fortune from the Indian Nation?” the man demanded in a voice too loud to be completely in control.

Sam skidded a slice of beet into the gravy with his fork and plopped the bite into his mouth. “I reckon I am.”

The man spoke so rapidly that all the words ran together. “I want you out of town within an hour.”

Sam thought about reaching for his Colt but locked his fingers around a fork instead. “I can't do that, deputy.”

The lawman's hand lingered on the walnut grip of his revolver. “I ain't askin' you, Fortune, I'm tellin' you. We don't need your kind in Cheyenne City. I had a brother-in-law down in Fort Smith, Arkansas. He sent me the newspapers all about you, the Kiowa half-breed, and them others. I want all of you out of town today.”

Sam felt the blood rush to his head. He clenched his fist around the fork until his knuckles turned white. “Mister, I am not leavin' town, because I have not committed a crime and I promised to meet with some of Cheyenne's solid citizens tomorrow. As far as Kiowa and the others are concerned—they are all dead.”

“Well, now, that was mighty thoughtful of them.” The lines on the stocky, dark-haired man began to soften. “You ought to consider doin' likewise.”

Mister, you want to step out on the street and try your hand at it?
Sam stabbed a bite of potato and lukewarm, thick brown gravy.

“Did you hear me, Fortune? As soon as you are through eatin', I want you ridin' out of town.”

Fortune shoved away from the table, and the man jumped back a foot. “Mister, what's your gripe?” Sam challenged. “I haven't committed a crime in Wyoming, and there are no warrants out for me. I've served my time in prison. I'm a law-abidin' man eatin' supper. Go torment someone else.”

“It ain't right,” the deputy growled.

Sam draped his hand across the arm of the oak chair, only inches from the grip of his pistol. “What isn't right?”

“You killin' my brother-in-law and then walkin' around free.” The man spoke so loud other customers got up and scurried out of the room.

“The one in Fort Smith? What was his name?”

“Skitter Waddle,” the deputy spat out.

Fortune scooted his chair back up to the table, sipped coffee, and let out a long, slow breath before he spoke. “Waddle hid in an alley beside the Magnolia Saloon and tried to shoot me in the back with a shotgun. To my benefit, he was too drunk to shoot straight.”

“And you weren't?”

“That's one of the reasons I don't drink.”

“You murdered him.”

Sam could feel his face and neck flush. He replied through clenched teeth, “Didn't you ever wonder why Judge Parker refused to even hear the case?”

“You ain't listenin' to me, Fortune.” The man poked his finger into Fortune's shoulder. “I said you had to be out of town in an hour or else.”

“And you didn't hear me.” Sam quickly grabbed the finger and bent it straight back. “I said I'm stayin'. I got to meet with the Edgingtons tomorrow.”

He released the finger, and the deputy clutched it with his free hand. “You're lyin' to me. You don't know them folks!”

Sam could see Delfy, the cook, and two customers watching from the doorway. “I'll tell you what.” He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “You go right in there to the hotel lobby and call the Edgingtons on the telephone. I presume you know how to use one. Now, you can't talk to Amanda, because she's flat in bed. She just had a beautiful baby boy. But talk to Cyrus Edgington. Tell him you're tryin' to throw Sam Fortune out of town.”

“I could call your bluff.”

“That's exactly what I'm suggestin'. And while you are talkin' to him on the telephone, ask Mr. Edgington what they named his new little son and who they named him after.”

The lawman stormed out of the restaurant into the hotel lobby. As soon as he left, the blond waitress, Delphia, came over to his table to refill his china coffee cup. “What did the deputy want with you?”

Fortune held the cup to his mouth and blew the steam off the top. “He wanted me to leave town.”

Her thin eyebrows rose, but her eyes still danced. “Are you wanted by the law?”

“Not at the moment.” He glanced around the room. Most of the folks filtered back to their tables.

“You surprise me.” Delfy fussed with the yellow daises in the green, glass vase in the middle of the table. “I figured you for one of them rich Texas ranchers.” When she arose, her hand lingered on his shoulder.

He reached up and patted her hand. “Now aren't you glad I didn't agree to take you to the dance?”

“No, I'm not. What you used to be don't matter to me. I ain't exactly spent my whole life servin' tables in a restaurant. Your past don't matter. Even that gray hair don't matter.”

Sam Fortune began to laugh.

“Are you pokin' fun at me?” she quizzed.

He squeezed her hand. “No, ma'am. I like you Delfy. You're straightforward and refreshin'.”

“Does that mean you changed your mind about the dance?”

“Nope, but I just might have an important favor to ask of you a bit later.”

“Fortune!” the deputy constable boomed as he stomped back across the room. “I don't know how you weaseled an invitation to the Edgingtons, but you ain't stayin' in town one hour later than your lunch's through tomorrow.”

“Did you ask about the baby?” Sam challenged.

“Mrs. Edgington had her baby?” Delfy interrupted.

Sam sliced a bit of now cold meat. “Yep.”

“A girl or a boy?” she pressed.

He slid the bite off his knife with his teeth, chewed, then swallowed. “A boy.”

Delfy ran her finger down Fortune's shirtsleeve. “What's his name?”

Sam waved the gravy-stained knife in the direction of the constable. “Why don't you tell her, deputy?”

“I ain't concerned with a baby's name, but I am concerned that you keep the law while you're in town, Sam Fortune. You better watch yourself at all times. One wrong move, and we don't intend to lock you up, if you get my drift.”

Delfy pulled her hand away from his arm. “Are you really Sam Fortune?”

“Yeah, that's me, darlin'.” Fortune took another sip of coffee.

“Did you hear me, Fortune?” the deputy blustered.

“What do you plan on doin', deputy? Hidin' in the alley with a shotgun, so you can shoot me in the back?”

Several restaurant patrons again exited the room.

“I heard it took fourteen U.S. marshals and six Indian scouts to capture you,” she blurted out.

“The story was exaggerated,” Sam grinned. “It was only twelve U.S. marshals and five Baltimore Indian scouts.”

The deputy's face flushed. He waved his finger in front of Fortune. “Only the presence of this . . . this woman . . . keeps me from tellin' you how I really feel.”

“For that, I am grateful. However, she isn't ‘this woman'—her name's Delphia. And she's not merely a woman, but a lady. And I agree with you completely. We should not carry on this conversation in her presence. Good day, Mr. Deputy.”

The deputy stormed across the room then spun around and hollered, “You watch yourself, Fortune.”

“I will, Deputy. And I'm sure you will as well.”

The lawman tramped out of the restaurant.

“He don't have no right to treat you that way, even if you are Sam Fortune.” She folded her arms across her chest. “What kind of favor do you want?”

His voice lowered. “Would you escort me back to my hotel room?”

She tried to suppress a giggle by covering her mouth with her hand. “You want me to walk with you?”

“Yes, ma'am. That deputy will have pals hiding around town to spy on me and take a shot if they get a chance. But none of them will dare try anything with a beautiful, young woman on my arm.”

“I ain't really all that young. I ain't in my forties, like you, but I ain't young.”

Forty? Do I really look that old?
“You are a young lady, Delfy. Trust me.”

“Do I get to stay in your room for a while?”

“No. Delfy . . .
ladies
don't make requests like that.”

“That's because
ladies
are married long before they reach my age. Do I have to be a lady?” She kept her arms folded.

“Of course not. But it's your God-given privilege. It doesn't make good sense to toss that privilege away.”

“Well . . . since you put it that way. You're a complicated man, Sam Fortune.”

The pillow was fluffy.

The mattress soft.

The sheets clean.

The room dark.

The neighbors quiet.

The room at the Inter-Ocean was exactly what Sam Fortune expected from a first class hotel.

But he couldn't get to sleep.

He lit the lantern, pulled Rocklin's Bible out of the black, leather valise, and read Psalm 51.

Again.

Then he paced the room, checked the chamber of the Sharps carbine for a cartridge, and laid the gun back down on the bed. He shut off the lantern and continued to pace the room, wearing only an old pair of longhandles that he had cut off at the knees and elbows.