Along The Fortune Trail (23 page)

A
fter the massive overdose of laudanum had brought an end to Clip and Odie, Sammy spent the rest of the night shimmying and squirming to try and free himself of the ropes. The loops around his chest circled down over his arms to where his wrists were tied in front of him. It seemed the upper loops had not relented at all, and his efforts had only left him tired and rope burned all over. Still, he made a little progress with the loops that ran down over his thighs because Clip had run out of rope just before he got to Sammy's knees, and tied off above them. By tiny movements up and down, pushing off the balls of his feet while flexing his knees up and down, one after the other, the rope began to gradually inch upward on his legs. Shortly before dawn, he stopped from exhaustion, and his head hung forward and down as he slept.

The gray of first light filtered through the trees, revealing the morbid scene in detail. Clip lay dead with his partially-open eyes fixed up toward the sky. Odie had hit the fire dead center with his chest and face. His jacket, shirt, and cap had burned completely, and his naked and charred upper torso lay smoldering, leaving the stench of burned flesh hanging heavy in the air. The horse and mule that Odie and Clip had arrived on stood tied to trees several hundred feet away.

Sammy thought about the stark circumstances. Two dead men lay fifteen feet in front of him and he was roped to a tree with bound hands and no perceptible means of escape. He was not near any trail, and it was unlikely anybody would happen by and see him, being a hundred feet inside the tree line and facing upslope.

Looking at Odie and Clip, Sammy wondered how they had managed to come upon him. Perhaps they had trailed him, seeing he was alone, and had planned to take him when he slept. He knew none of it mattered now.

Imagining a way to get loose strained his thinking. There was nothing viable that came to mind beyond somebody untying him or working his own way free. He'd already worked at it enough to understand the unlikely prospect of it. He prayed and thanked God for seeing him through his encounter with Clip and Odie, but he couldn't imagine that he had survived it to die tied to a tree. He wouldn't accept that, and he again began to shimmy and squirm and work his legs and twist his wrists.

After a while, he rested and tried whistling for Dobe. His lips were cut and swollen from Odie striking him, and he was unable to generate much volume. He whistled his weak fluted shrill into the woods, then listened. He whistled again and yelled, wishing he were tied to the other side of tree so he could see through to the east and onto the plains and perhaps spot his horse or any travelers. He listened again. All he could hear was the creek faintly running in the distance. He worked his body and wrists again, trying to note any discernable progress other than the fractional movement upward of the rope over his legs. Time dragged on. For long intervals he would work at moving, and then rest, and whistle, and yell, and listen.

The sun streamed high in the sky as morning gave way to the afternoon. Sammy kept up the routine of work and rest and calling out. His wrists bled from the rope cuts. His body was rubbed raw everywhere the rope looped around and where his back had rubbed on the tree. The more he worked at it, the worse the pain got. But the rope on his legs seemed to have come up several inches so that he could kick his feet out from the tree a foot or so. And he felt as if the rope on his torso had maybe loosened just a bit, but he wondered if it was just imagined. He urinated. His piss burned where it hit the ropes on his legs.

Late in the afternoon, he saw several buzzards begin their slow circling overhead. He knew it wouldn't be long before they came down. Other scavengers would soon catch scent and come seeking their portion.

With the twilight came the birds. Half a dozen landed one at a time, then walked cautiously around the campsite determining what was living and what was dead. Sammy grunted and barked demonically, kicking his feet at any bird that ventured his way. The birds settled on Clip and Odie, leaving Sammy alone, as if they knew his status at the tree meant a later opportunity.

When the darkness of night fell full, Sammy was beset by an insatiable thirst. His resolve at denying its torment had been whittled away as a fading refuge of defense. He was cold and exhausted and his pain abated to something tolerable only when he remained still. Doubt crept forth as he considered if he could ever work himself free. He began to make his peace, praying and asking God to bring him home quickly if his time on earth was to end. His shivering became uncontrollable, and he was consumed with enduring his pain and thirst. Somewhere he broke with it, and sleep came as the great deliverer of relief.

He dreamed the recurring dream he'd had as a boy in which he was deep in the dark woods. There was a cabin with a window, and it shone a soft yellow glow that drew his very soul forth with the sensation of consummate love and security. Although the dream had come many times, he had never entered the cabin, instead he just saw it and felt its power and allure as an infinite sanctuary. Now he saw it once again and felt the warmth. And he dreamed of his mother holding him as a young boy after he'd been hurt or had a nightmare, remembering the soothing sweetness of it when she told him everything would be all right. And in his dream the revelation came that these events were an extension of God's mercy and grace, and that one day he would enter the cabin in the dark woods and find that all along it had been a glimpse of heaven. And then he was awake again.

The night's blackness swallowed him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up with goose bumps rising over his body. He could hear the pulling and ripping of flesh by strong teeth. The birds were gone, replaced by coyotes or wolves. He couldn't tell which, but either way would mean his end if they decided to turn their attention to him. His eyes adjusted slowly with the waxing slice of moon above, providing just enough light down through the trees to make out the shapes. It looked to be three of them. Coyotes he figured, as wolves were rare. Then as if on cue, they began a round of yipping with a few howls that confirmed their identity. The coyotes resumed their feeding with Sammy being fairly certain that Clip and Odie would provide more than enough to keep them at bay, for the time being.

He watched and listened to the frenzy, thinking that just a night before these men had been living beings, but now they were mere sustenance for the predators. He slowly began to work at the ropes again. The pain was not slow in returning, but he ignored it the best he could and continued. The ropes had loosened some. He was sure of it. Could he get them loose enough? He kept at it for an hour, confining his mind to anything that mitigated the pain his movement brought.

Somewhere during that time the coyotes left, with Sammy being completely unaware of their departure. He knew they'd be back. His pain and thirst were racking him again, and he eventually hung his head forward, hoping for sleep. It finally came as a prayer answered. There were no dreams this time, only a depth of refuge from consciousness and the hell it had become.

Sleep hung on him as a cloak until dawn, when it was peeled back by the scent, familiar and haunting like something lost that would always be beyond reach. It remained strong and invaded his peace like a cruel hoax of hope that would vanish with his awakening. Then, like the wind filling a sail, the reality awakened him as Dobe put his nose under Sammy's hanging head and nuzzled up against him, pushing Sammy's head up. Sammy's eyes opened and he smiled as his horse continued pushing his snout against Sammy's chest and shoulders.

“Man, oh man. It's good to see you.” Sammy leaned his head forward and rubbed his face into Dobe's. “Yeah. That's some good lovin’. I need it.” He caught a glimpse of the blood on Dobe's rear flank. “I see that dumb son of a bitch hit you,” Sammy said, mad all over again that Clip had shot at his horse. “Well neither one of those geniuses could read, and that led to their demise, I'm happy to report.”

Sammy looked over to Clip and Odie who had been moved about as the coyotes had fed on their soft bellies and intestines and thighs and buttocks. “Why don't you hang around and neither one of us will die here alone,” he said to Dobe with a slight tone of resignation.

Through the morning mist, the figure on horseback appeared like an apparition in silent movement. Sammy watched and Dobe snorted as the figure weaved smoothly through the trees, heading right for them. It was an Indian. There was something familiar about him, but Sammy couldn't place it. He only knew it was not the surviving Indian from the cave. But it was someone he'd seen before. He wondered how that was possible, up here, so far from home. With his horse standing next to him, Sammy helplessly watched as the Indian rode the last hundred feet into the camp.

The Indian came to a stop and sat atop his horse looking at Sammy with expressionless eyes. He wore buckskin pants with short leather tassels down the side of each leg, and his vest looked to have been fashioned from beaver pelts. A bronze medallion in the shape of a quarter moon hung from his neck in the midst of several bead necklaces. Two red feathers stood up as a V from the back of his head where they were tucked into his leather headband. Sammy stared back at him, each man's gaze holding on each other for a long moment before the Indian swung a leg up and over the neck of his horse and dropped to the ground, landing silently like a cat.

The Indian walked slowly around the camp and stopped and squatted by Odie. He looked for a moment at the charred and unrecognizable face, then moved over to where Clip lay face down and mostly naked from his clothes being ripped off where the coyotes had fed. He rolled Clip over and stared at his lifeless eyes. Sammy detected the slightest expression of recognition on the Indian's face as he yipped loudly several times, like some victory call.

Sammy braced for his own ending as the Indian's attention turned back to him. He moved toward him now, but stopped as he came upon Dobe, looking at the blood on the horse's flank beneath the bullet's entry and exit wound. The recollection flooded Sammy's mind like the nightmare it had once been. It was the Indian from Sammy's dream those months back. The knife came easily from the sheath with a glint on the blade from the light above. Sammy's breath froze still in his chest as he prepared to die. The movement was swiftly elegant as the Indian stepped forward, his arm in a swinging arc that propelled the blade to its intended target. The tautness of the rope relaxed as the two cut ends fell away from each other. The Indian turned and walked to his horse, where he took one bounding spring and was remounted. A moment later he was fading into the landscape of the forest.

Sammy shimmied and pulled, and the rope came loose. He was free at last.

Finding his knife by the campfire, he squatted and clamped it between his knees with the blade up. Then he moved his tied wrists back and forth on the blade until the rope was severed and his hands were free. He grabbed his canteen and drank fully, then repacked his gear and collected his money back from what was left of Clip and Odie. After turning loose Clip and Odie's raggedy horse and mule, he took his change of clothes and headed for the creek.

The sun had cracked the horizon and shone brightly on the creek as Sammy stripped naked and threw his pants and skivvies away. He had pissed himself half a dozen times and shit once. He wanted no part of them ever again. The creek ran swift and cold as Sammy stepped into it. He went to his knees, then stretched out fully, submerging all of his body. The cold water stung his rope burns like a horde of wasps, but he welcomed the pain that came with living. He sat up and washed himself then lay out fully again for several minutes and let the water run over him. Minutes later, he stood naked drying in the morning sun as Dobe cropped good grass.

After dressing in fresh clothes, Sammy closely inspected Dobe's wound. The bullet had entered at the rear of the horse's right hind and exited several inches forward, having stayed close to the surface and tearing through muscle. It had not struck an artery, and the wounds were not bleeding at the moment, but the horse had a bad limp and certainly was not ready for any hard work.

Sammy found suitable plants and boiled the diced leaves along with charcoal and flour to make the poultice for Dobe. He gobbed it on and molded it thickly over the bullet holes. The remaining flour yielded a little frybread for himself. He was starving, and the coyotes and birds had eaten his jerky and hardtack. The fry-bread was good, but too little and quickly gone. A thought of fishing again was quickly thrown over by the compelling desire to get gone of the whole damn place.

Sammy strapped on his gunbelt, appreciating the weight of his 44s. He packed his rig and gear on Dobe and whistled for his horse to follow him as he walked out of the woods and headed north.

I
n the late morning, Sammy crested a plains hill and saw the town of Walsenburg a few miles ahead. He reached it at noon and walked up the main street, leading Dobe by the reins. Strong wind blew dust clouds about, prompting several proprietors to close their windows and doors as he passed. A livery sat at the end of the street. Sammy tied Dobe at the hitching post in front then entered the barn and found a man cleaning a stall inside.

“Hello. Are you the man?” Sammy asked.

The man glanced at Sammy and kept working. “Yep. What can I do you for?”

“A stall for my horse. Feed and water ‘m … and anything you might know about caring for bullet holes. He's got two on his right flank. Just one bullet—where it entered and came out. He's got a poultice on right now.”

The man stopped and looked at Sammy's cut and swollen lips and his nose, puffy and slightly discolored with bruising that extended out under the eyes. He looked at the gashes on Sammy's wrists just below his cuff line. “I'm not an outlaw,” Sammy said, noting the apprehension on the man's face. “A couple of men tried to rob me.”

“Tried, eh?”

“That's right … tried.”

The man seemed to roll that around for a moment. “Bring your horse in.”

“All right,” Sammy said, then collected Dobe, and walked him in.

The man took a good look at Dobe and his poultice. “This looks fresh. No need to change this till tomorrow. I can clean it then put some antiseptic on. Maybe bandage it and work his leg with some liniment … get it circulating.”

“That sounds good. Can I leave him now?”

“Yep. It's fifty cents a day for the boarding and another two bits for the medical supplies and care.”

Sammy gave him a silver dollar. “Is there anyplace to stay here? I didn't see anything comin’ up the street.”

“The hotel we had burned down New Year's Eve. They're going to rebuild it this summer. Try Beulah's just west a quarter mile. She don't post for it, but she's got an extra room or two, and whatever else you might fancy.” The man cracked the slightest smile.

Sammy pulled his saddlebags and rifle off Dobe and hoisted the bags over his shoulder. “I saw the tracks and depot on the east end. Is there a train runnin’?”

“Yep. The Denver and Rio Grande. Just finished up a few months back. Runs all the way to Denver. And now they're laying track west to Alamosa.”

“Yeah? That oughta be good for business.”

“I suppose. Been a lot of prospectors through.”

“You happen to know the schedule on that Denver train?”

“Runs north Tuesdays and Fridays. 9 a.m.”

Sammy thought for a moment. “Is today Thursday?”

“Yep.”

“Do they haul horses?”

“Yep.”

“Much obliged, mister. I'll be back in the morning.”

Sammy went to the mercantile and bought a pair of pants, a shirt, some skivvies, a smoked ham, a can of peaches, and a jar of salve that advertised it was good for all skin ailments. He found a place on the side of a building that was mostly out of the wind and sat down and devoured the peaches and half of the ham. Then he headed for Beulah's.

There were no markings on the two-story frame building, but it was the only thing in sight, and the sign in the window read: Come On In. The front parlor had a small bar and two settees with faded pink tapestries behind them, one of which had stitched in large gold letters: Beulah's Sporting Palace. Underneath, in smaller letters it read: A Stiff Stump Needs A Good Hump.

A gal in her mid-twenties wearing a silk robe sat at the bar reading an old newspaper with a coffee cup in front of her. The bell on the door jingled when Sammy walked in. She looked up, a little surprised to see the cowboy with saddlebags and a rifle. “Hello, honey. You're early. You here for a little relief?”

Sammy looked around and managed a smile. “I'm not here for the sportin’, ma'am. I'm lookin’ for a room for the night.”

“A room? That's all?

“Well, yeah.”

“You sure look like you had a time of it. I can make you feel better.”

“Maybe later. Do you have a room?”

“Wait here a minute.” She left and came back a moment later with an older woman whom Sammy guessed to be the proprietor.

“Hello, baby. I'm Beulah. I understand you're looking for a room.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I usually have an empty one, but I've got a new girl and it's not available except for sporting customers—and they don't spend the whole night. If you want to sleep here tonight, it'll have to be with one of my girls for the whole night price.”

“How much is that?”

“Four dollars. I'll throw in a bath and breakfast … and two free drinks. You can pick the girl.”

“What time can I eat breakfast?”

“Seven a.m. I'll feed you good, baby.”

“Okay,” Sammy said and dug out the money. “I don't need to see the other girls, if that's alright with you.”

“It sure is, honey. I'm Rita. You can come with me.”

She led him upstairs to her room where he deposited his gear in a corner and then sat on the bed. “How ‘bout it, honey? Would you like to have a go at it now?”

Sammy was pretty well shot. It had been a ten-mile hike to town that morning, and he hadn't slept much during his time tied to the tree. The feel of the bed made him woozy with exhaustion just sitting on it. “I'd like to have a go at this bed for an hour or so, if you don't mind.”

Rita looked a bit deflated. “You paid for it, honey.”

“Would you help me with something first?” Sammy asked as he began unbuttoning his shirt. His rope burns oozed slimy fluid that stuck to the fabric of his clothes.

“Yeah, honey. What do you want me to do?”

“My back needs some of this salve on it, and I can't reach it,” he said as he gingerly pulled off his shirt. “Would you put some on?”

She gasped at the burns on his arms and chest, red and raw with puss. He turned his back to her and she stared at the middle of it, ripped raw from his back rubbing on the coarse tree bark as he'd worked to free himself. “Oh, honey. You're a mess! What happened to you?”

“Wrong place, wrong time. But more so for the two hombres who roped me up.”

She looked at him, unsure of what he meant, but sure she wasn't going to ask and didn't want to know unless he volunteered the information. “Why don't you let me clean you up with a nice bath before we put on that salve. The tub is right downstairs and we always have hot water on. It's nice and private.”

“Okay. A little later then. I've gotta close my eyes for a while right now.”

Sammy pulled his shirt back on and kicked off his boots, stretching out on the bed with his eyes closed. “I'll be downstairs,” she said and left the room. Sammy was asleep inside of a minute.

He slept for several hours, then had his bath. Rita gently washed his back with soap and applied the salve to it before he dressed. “Would you like me to get you anything, honey?” she asked. “I could cook you up something to eat. It wouldn't be any trouble. I was gonna make something for myself anyway.”

Sammy gave her two dollars. “Yeah, I'd like that.”

“You don't have to pay me.”

“I want to. I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Thanks, honey.”

After they ate, Sammy rose from the table and began to head for the front door. “I'm gonna try out one of those rockers I saw on the front porch … have a smoke.”

“You want some company?”

“Sure. Come on, girl.”

“I'll be right there. I'm just going to clean up a minute.”

The wind had died and sunset glowed deep red on the western clouds. He sat in one of the wooden rockers and smoked, content in the moment. Rita stepped outside and sat next to him. She asked if he would roll her a smoke. He rolled her several, and they went from small talk to more personal things and how they came to be in their particular circumstances. A few customers drifted in with the evening, each man nodding to Sammy and Rita as if they were entering the mercantile, and Sammy and Rita carried on throughout. They talked of remembrances of being kids, each being surprised at some of the same kinds of recollections of outings and hearing stories and folklore, and playing games with other kids, which they discovered had been rare for each of them. For Rita, it was the sweetest of diversions to have such a conversation with a man that didn't revolve around business and her line of work. Soon the evening was gone. And the next morning, so too was Sammy.

The livery operator had done a good job of cleaning and bandaging Dobe's wounds. Sammy felt no excessive heat on the area directly around the bandages, and was fairly certain that infection was not present. Nevertheless, the horse's limp had not improved when Sammy walked him down to the station.

The train left the Walsenburg depot at 9 a.m. sharp, rolling north into the clear, sunny day. Sammy relaxed in the nearly empty car and watched the countryside go by, excited at the prospect of reaching Denver later that day. With each of the half dozen stops along the one hundred and sixty mile route came more people. At 4 p.m., when the train arrived in Denver, every seat was taken and several men stood in the aisle at the front of the car. The novelty of the ride had long since gone, and Sammy was thankful to finally climb down the steps at the Denver Station.