The Long Trail Home Page 8

  It was salty.

  I ought to stir up the fire and boil me some coffee.

  Rocklin shouldn’t have said those things. It’s none of his business. That’s why I’ve been in the Territory. There’s no one around to preach at me.

  He held the Sharps across his lap and fingered the cold, steel trigger.

  Except Daddy’s carbine. It preaches at me. I should just mail it back. That’s what I’ll do. Next time I’m in town, I’ll just wrap it up and send it to . . .

  I don’t even know who’s up there in the Black Hills. Dacee June. I’ll send it to . . . twenty-one? . . . is she really? It’s been ten years. She was in pigtails clutching onto Daddy’s arm everywhere he went.

  Far across the barren plains he heard a howl, then a duet of moaning wails. He cocked back the big hammer on the carbine. I haven’t seen a wolf or wolf track since we’ve been out here. He squinted his eye to spot movement in the darkness of the night. He got up and slowly circled the corral. He noticed a lantern lit Rocklin’s tent, and he spied the silhouette of the rancher sitting up on his cot. After bordering the corral once more, he hiked over to the row of tents.

  “Mr. Rocklin?” he called out. “Are you all right? Can I get you something?”

  The response was muted like something blurted into a pillow. Fortune opened the flap, bent over, and stuck his head inside. Rocklin sat on the edge of the cot wearing his ducking trousers and no shirt. His neck had swollen about the size of his head, his face white. He gestured for Fortune to come in.

  “Isn’t this somethin’?” he whispered. “I can’t talk much, but I don’t want to lay down.”

  “You want me to fetch you a drink of water or anything?”

  “You tryin’ to drown me? I want you to read this.” He handed him a piece of stiff paper.

  Sam noticed an open jar of India ink on the pork barrel that served as a table in the tent. He read through the page twice before he looked up at the man. “You want me to go to Dodge City and bring those longhorns back?” Sam asked.

  Rocklin motioned for Fortune to come closer. In a barely audible hoarse whisper, he explained, “If I pull through—and I certainly aim to—it will be three or four days before I can get on the trail. I’ve got to find out what’s going on. This gives you power of attorney to transact my business. Pay off the crew, and hire some cowboys to drive the herd out here if the others don’t want to come.”

  “Maybe we should wait a couple days, . . . you just might be able to . . .”

  “Sam, I need you to help me. I’m countin’ on you.” He reached out his swollen right hand.

  Fortune hesitated.

  “Do it for my Amanda up in Cheyenne City and those twelve girls she’s going to have someday.”

  Sam slipped his hand into Rocklin’s. The handshake was weak but sure.

  “As soon as you’re able, follow me into Dodge,” Fortune encouraged. “I’ll either be throwin’ the outfit together or on the trail back”—or in jail.

  “Don’t take the wagon. It’s too slow. Take two horses to trade off.” Rocklin motioned for Sam to hand him his brown leather vest. He reached into the pocket and pulled out a coin.

  “What’s the double eagle for?”

  “Expenses,” Rocklin replied. “Get a bath and shave; buy yourself a new shirt and maybe a tie before you present that power of attorney.”

  “I don’t know if I can pull this off, Mr. Rocklin.”

  “I don’t have anyone else. It’s about a hundred miles. You can make it in two days.”

  Fortune folded up the papers and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “I can make it by midnight, if the horses don’t give out,” he muttered.

  Rocklin’s swollen neck and face subsided a little by daylight, but he was too weak to get out of bed. His arm had turned such a dark red, it looked almost black. Sam Fortune climbed up on the buckskin gelding and Kiowa handed him the lead line to the red roan mare.

  “Anything I can bring you, Kiowa?”

  “You’ve got two horses, you could always bring back—”

  “You’ve got to find your own women,” Sam replied.

  “Sammy,” Kiowa whooped, “you ain’t much of a friend when the chips are down.”

  “Take care of the boss and those ponies until I get back.”

  “What else is there to do?”

  “Watch out for the red wolves,” Sam challenged.

  “Wolves? There ain’t any wolves up here.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But I heard two howls from the west last night—not the yip-yip-yee of coyotes, but honest wolf howls.”

  Kiowa grinned. “Might be some relatives of mine.”

  “You got any kin that isn’t lookin’ to shoot you?” Sam chided.

  “Nope.”

  “Then be careful. They’ll come after these horses if they think they can get away clean.”

  “Bring us back those bovines and a crew. Then we can take off, and the wolves will be someone else’s problem.”

  Sam Fortune reached the Cimarron River before noon without seeing a living creature on the plains. He crossed the border into Ford County, Kansas, then swung a little to the east and followed Salt Creek straight north, looping around two large herds of longhorns that were being grazed to the railroad.

  Neither belonged to Rocklin.

  Both said Rocklin’s bunch was farther on north.

  He reached the Arkansas River and the Santa Fe Railroad several hours after dark. He followed them east to the outskirts of Dodge City.

  Campfires glowed down by the river as well as lights along Front Street. He found a few unoccupied cottonwoods, picketed the horses, and pulled the saddle. Sam slept undisturbed, even through the sounds of a passing train rolling across the river.

  At 6:30 A.M. he sat at a corner table in Beatty and Kelley’s Restaurant and watched each man who came in. The steaming plate of biscuits, chops, and gravy diverted his attention from the doorway.

  I haven’t had one sit-down meal since I left jail, not that those meals really counted. Silverware, linen napkins, and a clean coffee cup—and someone who knows how to cook! A man could get used to that.

  A tall man in a black suit, with square shoulders and thick dark mustache, blustered through the front door, looked around, and left.

  That man looked an awful lot like Tap Andrews. Last I heard, he got killed bustin’ out of Arizona Territorial Prison when he ran across Stuart Brannon and that Yavapai posse of his. Course, if I believed rumors, I’d have to dig a grave and crawl in. No tellin’ how many times folks have announced my death.

  I could never live in Dodge City. Ever’ shadow and shout could be someone from my past. Maybe me and Kiowa should ride out to New Mexico. I don’t know many folks there.

  A young lady with a long yellow dress and clean white apron filled his coffee cup.

  “Darlin’, you look a whole lot like my little sister. Could you tell me how old you are?” he asked.

  She brushed long, light brown bangs off her eyes. “I’m going to be sixteen next week.”

  “Are you married?” he baited.

  “Are you proposing?” she laughed.

  Oh Lord, was I ever sixteen? “No, darlin’. . . I just haven’t seen my li’l sis in a long time, and I’m usin’ you as a substitute.”

  “Well, I’m not married, but I think Richard O’Brian is going to ask me by fall. He has seven hundred and ninety-two dollars, you know.”

  “That’s nice. He’s a thrifty man, I take it?”

  “Yes, and he’s very hardworking. He’s an apprentice bootmaker for John Mueller. On weekends he works on the south side of the railroad at the Dodge City Corrals. Papa said I can’t marry anyone unless he’s saved up a thousand dollars.”

  “You h
ave a very wise daddy. Thanks for talkin’ to me, darlin’.”

  “You look very lonely. Where is your little sister?”

  “Up in Dakota. In Deadwood, last I heard.”

  “I think you ought to go visit her.”

  “You’re right, darlin’—I ought to do that. And I think you ought to hold onto that Richard. He’s hardworking, thrifty, and smart. I know he’s smart, because he picked you out. If I was sixteen or seventeen, I’d be saving my money too.”

  “You would?”

  He nodded and gulped down a lukewarm swallow of coffee. “Now, where’s the best place in town to get a haircut and shave? I’ve been on the trail too long.”

  “Right next door at the Centennial Barber Shop. Ask for Mr. Dieter. You can get your hair cut in the latest fashion.”

  “What is the latest fashion?”

  “Well, for men your age, I suppose the fashions don’t change much.”

  “You’re right about that darlin’.”

  He watched her as she toted his dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Kids are honest. I’m a worn-out man with mostly gray hair. I don’t look thirty-four. I probably don’t even look forty-four.

  The immaculate man behind the barber chair almost stood at attention when he walked through the door.

  “Are you Dieter?” Sam asked.

  “Yes sir. Would you like a haircut today?”

  “A sixteen-year-old waitress next door said you were the best barber in Kansas.”

  The barber used a whisk brush to wipe down the leather chair. “That’s my Greta!”

  “Your daughter?”

  “My youngest daughter. I have six.” He motioned for Sam to sit down in the chair.

  “She’s a jewel. You and your wife did a very good job of raisin’ her.”

  The barber wrapped a linen cloth around Fortune’s neck. “I appreciate that, mister. Her mama died when she was born. I raised those six girls by myself.”

  “That’s a tough bronc to ride.”

  “The other girls are like Greta, except they are all happy and married. I am a lucky man. I figure the Lord brings sorrow to all of us, but the blessings more than make up for it. You have kids, mister?”

  Fortune stared at the mirror behind the barber’s chair. “Eh? No. No kids.”

  “Sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to pry. That ain’t right. Now, what can I do?”

  “Shampoo; haircut; shave. Leave my mustache.”

  “I’ve got some hot towels and liniment that will lift some of the dirt out of that elbow of yours, if you’d like.”

  “What’s this deluxe job goin’ to cost me?”

  “The whole works? That will be a dollar, which includes your choice of tonic water splashed on your face.”

  “That’s what I want,” Sam replied. “Now, tell me how in the world you raised six girls on your own.”

  Sam’s hat slipped down almost to his ears when he finally walked out of the Centennial Barber Shop. The first clerk who approached him at Wright, Beverley & Company ushered him to a row of Stetsons.

  “You think I need a new hat?” Sam grinned.

  The young man with slicked back, brown hair looked apologetic. “Most of the drovers who come up the trail want to buy a new hat.”

  “I need more than a hat.”

  “We have a trail special,” the clerk reported.

  “And what is that?”

  “A three-piece suit, white shirt, tie, and new Stetson for eleven dollars.”

  “Is the suit nobby?”

  “No, it’s modest. But the hat is top of the line.”

  “Can you toss out the tie and throw in some undergarments?”

  “Yep. Same price.”

  “What would it be if I picked up a second shirt and a new pair of ducking trousers?”

  “Two dollars and seventy-five cents more.”

  “Well, son, let’s do the whole works.”

  “Would you like new boots?”

  “Nope. But I’d like these polished.”

  “Pull them off. We can do that in the back room while you’re picking out your clothes.”

  “How long will it take you to tailor the suit?”

  “We’ll have it done by the time you find a bathhouse and return. That is . . . you know . . . if you were headed to the bathhouse.”

  Sam surveyed the dirt that coated his clothing. “I believe I’m not the first one up the trail you’ve waited on.”

  “No sir. I’ve been at this for almost six years. If you need a bathhouse, there’s one right next door. I can bring your clothes over as soon as they’re hemmed up.”

  Fortune studied the young man from head to toe. “Son, did you ever save up a thousand dollars?”

  “Eh . . . no, sir . . . I haven’t.”

  “Well, do it. I understand there’s a lot of daddies in this town that won’t let their daughters marry until the boy saves up a thousand dollars. I think that’s a goal worth savin’ for, don’t you?”

  The young man’s eyes grew wide. “Yes sir, I reckon I do!”

  Sam Fortune studied the bathhouse mirror. The dark gray suit fit well. Though the white shirt, buttoned at the collar, did not sport a tie. The new, light gray Stetson with four-inch brim had a rounded crown, but one chop from Sam’s right hand creased it down the middle.

  When he stepped out on the boardwalk, he tipped his new hat to a lady in a green plaid suit made of mohair brilliantine. A double row of pearl buttons dropped down from the high collar to the skirt accenting the woman’s narrow waist. Her long, curly, dark brown hair was fastened up on her head and tucked under a white straw hat with green, French silk flowers. The woman’s bright blue eyes caught Fortune by surprise. She smiled slightly, and nodded as she passed by.

  I doubt if that lady would have smiled at me the way I looked when I first rode to town. Although cowboys sportin’ new clothes must be a fairly common event in a place like—

  “Sammy?”

  He looked back at the woman. She spun around to study him.

  Do I know her?

  It was the smile that gave her away.

  “Rachel?”

  “Sammy, look at you! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dressed up so fine.”

  “Me? Rachel, darlin’, you look fancy enough to be a banker’s wife!”

  “My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m Mrs. Hershel Sinclair.”

  “That’s wonderful, Rachel . . .”

  The flowers in her hat made her look taller than five feet three inches. “It really is, Sammy. These past seven years have been the absolutely happiest ones of my whole life.”

  He leaned his right hand against a porch post. It felt well-worn, slick, and a little sticky. “Seven years? It hasn’t been seven years.”

  “It’s been nine years since that night you and I got run out of Fort Worth. You went back to the Indian Territory, and I went to my sister’s in Chicago, remember? It was there that the Lord decided not to give up on me.”

  “The Lord? Don’t tell me you converted.”

  “You’ll get no apologies from me, Sam Fortune. It’s a wonderful feeling to know that God forgives you. I attended a Bible class with my sister and met Dr. Sinclair there. We’ve been in Dodge five years now. How have you been? From the looks of that handsome suit you’re quite successful. I hear from some of the old gang from time to time. The last I heard, you were incarcerated.”

  Fortune scratched the back of his neck. The new hat felt very stiff. “We do have to reap what we sow.”

  “How true. However, we can be forgiven and start out fresh and new. I wish you could meet the children.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Four—and Hershel wants more. Two boys and
two girls. How about you, Sam Fortune? Have you settled down yet?”

  “I’m not married, if that’s what you’re hintin’ at.”

  “Of course it is! I certainly like that suit on you. I’m glad you don’t wear a tie. It shows a certain flair. Most men wear one because they know women find them irresistibly attractive, but being independently minded like you are, you reject such appeal and go you’re own way. I like that. I always liked that in you. Now, what are you doing in Dodge, and can you stay for supper tonight? I’ll have the cook set an extra plate.”

  “I’m reppin’ for a rancher down in the Public Lands. I have to check on his cattle and get a crew to drive them out to the ranch. I’ll be leavin’ this afternoon, if I can.”

  She leaned over, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek. “Sammy, it is wonderful to see you. I . . . I . . . well, frankly, I supposed you would be dead by now, the life you were living. I have to scoot over to a meeting at the church, but you must promise to have supper with us next time you are in town. Hershel will enjoy visiting with you. I’ve told him all about you and me.”

  “You have?”

  “Well, . . .” Rachel rolled her eyes to the light blue sky. “Not exactly all . . . but you know what I mean. Say, did you ever get things settled with your daddy?”

  “Why did you ask that, Rachel?” he snapped.

  “Oh, my . . . I am sorry. I don’t know why it popped into my head. Please forgive me, Sammy. You’re right. It was uncalled for. I really must scoot. Promise me, Sam Fortune. Next time you come to Dodge you’ll have supper at our house.”

  “I promise,” he mumbled.

  “Good, because Sam Fortune is a rebel and a scamp, but he always keeps his word to women.”

  Sam stared after her until she turned the corner and headed south.

  He strolled along the shade of the covered boardwalk. It seems like ever’one I know is either dead or reformed. Rachel Dally—you looked good, girl. Gettin’ away from me was smart. Trouble is . . . I can’t ever get away from me.

  Why did she ask about Daddy?