Along The Fortune Trail (5 page)

S
ammy stepped out onto the boardwalk and Dobe raised his head in anticipation of moving on, or maybe another treat. “Not just yet,” Sammy said, as he gave the horse a pat on the neck. “I've been hankerin’ for a sarsaparilla all month.” He stuffed his old boots in the saddlebags and walked across the street toward the Frontier Saloon, still admiring the feel of his new boots and wondering if they could improve his dancing enough to give him a chance with Jenny Simpson. Sammy laughed to himself and said out loud, “Ole Jake sure can get ya thinkin’ a whole new direction.”

Sammy pushed the batwing doors open and turned his head to the right, letting go with a shot at the spittoon that always sat next to a near life-size carving of a downed buffalo being stood over by a frontiersman with a raccoon cap and a Hawken fifty caliber rifle. As always, the shot of juice found its mark perfectly. Sammy paused to admire the statue. It was a favorite attraction of all who wandered in, routinely serving as a conversation piece that began all manner of stories.

The rays of morning sun pushed through the two front windows to the back of the narrow room where the card games took place. Two men sat at one of the rear tables with a half-full bottle of whiskey. They were the only other people in the saloon besides Sammy and the bartender, Bernie, who looked up from under the mountain lion head hanging above the bar. “Hello, Leaky! Been a while since you made town!” Bernie joyfully boomed.

Sammy had just arrived at the bar with a smile and an outstretched hand to shake Bernie's when the loud, sarcastic voice came from the rear table. “Leaky! Did yer mama name you that? Watch out, Cody. There's a flood coming … I don't believe he's diapered up!” Lonny the Kid laughed hard at his own wit and slapped his thigh several times.

“Looks like you've got a couple of live ones, Bernie,” Sammy said as he shook the bartender's hand, his disposition calm and unaffected.

The bartender leaned in close and spoke in a low tone. “They were here when I pulled in this mornin’. Randy said that one feller lost a pile last night and then flipped him a sawbuck to keep the place open. That's their second bottle.”

Sammy gave Bernie a knowing look and came to the point. “I've gone a long time without a sarsaparilla. You have any?”

Lonny jumped right in. “Did you hear that? Leaky wants a sarsaparilla. He might get leakier!” Lonny gave himself another deep belly laugh and Cody looked a little curious about what might come next.

“Mister Winds here is a respected customer who don't need no smart lip,” Bernie fired back, clearly agitated. “If you can't mind your own business, you'll have to leave.”

“It's all right, Bernie,” Sammy said. “I'll handle it if it keeps goin’.”

Lonny paused, and then said in a comical tone of disbelief, “Did you just say Mister Winds? You mean to tell me this sarsaparilla swizzler's name is Leaky Winds?” Lonny put on a horrified expression, slapped Cody Royals on the back, and yelled in a tone of panic, “Watch out Cody! He might let loose with a stink cloud!” Lonny erupted in laughter, stomping his foot on the floor and banging the table with his fist hard enough to tip the whiskey bottle over and make the shot glasses dance from spot to spot. Cody quickly grabbed the bottle and managed a nervous chuckle.

Sammy laughed and casually took a drink of the sarsaparilla that Bernie had put in front of him, not offering up any retort or even seeming bothered. The lack of response really bothered Lonny, though, and emboldened him. He'd lost several hundred dollars hours earlier to a salty bunch who knew each other. Lonny had been just drunk enough to bet stupidly, but not drunk enough to call anybody out. Now his mood was dark and he was itching for a fight. The months since the train robbery had been a succession of towns and nights of losing big money in card games, mostly because of being arrogant and too drunk. It hadn't mattered to him at first, but now his take from the train had been whittled down to well under a thousand. He had paid Cody's way to keep him company and remain a big shot in somebody's eyes. Now all the waste settled into the single moment at hand.

“I believe your mama must a-popped out a leaky, stinky worm ‘cause your daddy had nothin better in ‘m,” Lonny said with deadly contempt.

It took Sammy a moment to realize what had been said about his dead parents. The bright, beautiful morning went black as anger descended. He looked at Bernie with an expression that let the bartender know to stay put. Sammy turned and walked straight to the table where Lonny was rising and Cody was worrying. Sammy looked at the twin pistols Lonny was wearing and remembered packing his own tie-down in his saddlebags when he'd broken camp that morning. He didn't see the knife Lonny wore on his right back hip.

Sammy stopped two feet in front of Lonny, who now stood to the side of the table and was opening his mouth again. “I guess I'll have to—agghh!” The stream of tobacco juice hit Lonny in the right eye and was followed by a crushing right fist that splattered Lonny's nose and sent blood spewing. Lonny slammed back against the wall and slid to the floor. He sat stunned for several seconds, blood pumping from his disfigured nose that flattened out grossly to one side.

Suddenly, Lonny's eyes bulged. He began screaming something incoherent, but there was no mistaking his right hand flashing for his gun. Sammy swung his foot at Lonny's hand as his pistol cleared the holster, but Lonny was already pulling the trigger. Sammy's boot hit Lonny's gun hand from the side just as the muzzle flashed and a thunderous bang deafened the room. The hot lead hit Sammy in the upper chest and knocked him back two steps, but his kick had found its mark and sent Lonny's pistol flying. It landed on the wood floor and slid a few feet, inviting Sammy to contemplate making a move for it. But Lonny was already reaching with his left hand for his other Mahogany-handled pistol. Sammy knew there was no time. He dove at Lonny as the pistol was coming level.

His shoulder hit Lonny in the chest, and his hands clamped on to Lonny's gun wrist. Lonny grunted at the impact and squeezed the trigger rapidly, sending two shots errantly into the woodwork of the bar. Sammy slammed Lonny's gun hand on the floor several times, causing Lonny to lose his grip. The pistol bounced a few feet away and Sammy instinctively reached out for it, almost grasping it, when he felt the knife pierce his back and hit shallow bone, causing it to turn and skid along a rib.

Frantically, Sammy grabbed Lonny by the chest and pulled as he rolled to his right, flipping Lonny over him, where he landed hard on the floor. Sammy grabbed the wrist of Lonny's knife hand and held it tight while he found his target, clamping his teeth around the top joint of Lonny's thumb and biting down like a wolf. The joint began to sever as Lonny screamed and was no longer able to grip the knife. Sammy ripped the knife from his hand, then bulldogged his way on top of Lonny with an adrenaline-driven instinct to end it. Lonny was stretching with his left arm to retrieve his pistol, while attempting to fend off the attack with his right, when Sammy plunged the knife deep into Lonny's chest. Lonny exhaled hard with a look of shock on his face, which worsened as Sammy withdrew the knife and plunged it several more times into Lonny's chest until his eyes fixed in a lifeless stare and his breathing stopped. Lonny the Kid was dead.

Cody stood off to the side, frozen with an expression of disbelief at what he had just witnessed. Sammy attempted to get up, but wavered, then stumbled and fell, the deep red stain on the front of his shirt spreading wider with each second.

“Get the doctor, kid!” Bernie yelled at Cody as he hurried to Sammy's side. “One street down on the right, next to Agapito's store! Hurry up!”

Cody broke loose of his trance and ran to the front doors, where he bumped his way through a small crowd now gathering outside. He yelled as he ran, “I gotta get the doctor! I gotta get the doctor!”

I
t fell thick and dry, drifting to the earth on a light breeze as so many leaf-sized flakes of shaved frost. The Chintah range had grown cold, soaking up the white of an early winter snow that fell unending for a week. Sammy awoke in a slow advancement of senses, the room coming into focus as if lifting away a haze of hibernation. He felt the comfort of the bed and stared at the potbelly stove against the adjacent wall, aware of the warmth of the room and the aroma of charcoaled pine. The painting on the wall depicted a woods cabin in a winter setting with chimney smoke and a goodly store of stacked firewood against the wall. Sammy imagined he was warm on the inside of the cabin in the picture, and instinctively turned to the near window at the right of the bed to see if the outside matched the terrain of the painting. The window was mostly fogged with condensation, but he could see the eaves of another building through the very top, which offered a slim view.

The events of the bar suddenly flooded his mind as he recognized the pale-blue color of Watson's Boarding House through the window and realized he was in town. He remembered that he'd killed a man and began to search his body for wounds as the recollection of being both shot and stabbed came back. The padding of the bandage was thick, covering much of his chest and giving no indication of the exact location of the bullet wound. He could certainly feel it, though, as he pressed easily around the expanse of the bandage and located a severe soreness at the area of his right pectoral. He lifted his head slightly off the pillow to look, the small stretching motion making him aware of the dull throbbing in his back and causing him to wonder if it was a bullet exit wound, or where the knife had entered, or both. But those thoughts were quickly overcome by an onset of thirst that made finding a drink feel more immediate than the need to breathe.

Sammy could smell the water in the pitcher sitting on the small bedside table. He rolled to his left and reached for it, the motion sending agonizing pain through his upper body, but not slowing his retrieval of what he absolutely craved. Sammy didn't bother with the glass next to it. He pulled the pitcher to his face, steadied it with both hands, and began to drink like a man who'd been without for days. He gulped the water with a quenching satisfaction, draining half the pitcher before he quit for need of air. Sammy fell back on the pillow, exhausted and heaving. He coughed violently several times, the spasms shooting bolts of pain from his chest to his head, which instantly pounded. It took a minute before he was breathing normally again. Then he was out, his last conscious sense being disbelief at his weakened condition.

The pitcher rested next to Sammy's side for half an hour before he shifted and sent it rolling off the bed, crashing on the floor. He heard it as part of his dream and kept sleeping.

Doc Payton sat reading a month-old edition of the
Chicago Herald
, noting the increased price of beef, when he heard the commotion upstairs. He called out to the adjacent room, “Ruth, you better go next door and see if Missus Watson can fix up a plate. I believe our patient is stirring.”

“Yes, Doctor,” came the reply. “I think that was the water pitcher we just heard,” she added. A moment later she closed the door and left.

Doc Payton carefully folded the paper for later reading, then climbed the creaking stairs and entered the second door on the left. Sammy lay sleeping, his head turned to the side with his mouth wide open. The small lake on the floor next to him contained mostly large pieces of the pitcher. Doc Payton began picking it up. He said conversationally as he deposited chunks of the pitcher in a waste can under the table, “Sammy, can you hear me?” Doc Payton continued on as if Sammy might be listening. “Missus Watson is fixing up a plate of her good cooking for you right now. Looks like you've already been working at getting a drink,” he said, looking at the wet bed sheet where some of the water had spilled. “Sammy,” he said more deliberately. He shook Sammy lightly on the shoulder. “Would you like to have a bite to eat?”

Sammy opened his eyes, closed his mouth, and blinked several times as if trying to establish focus. “Doctor Payton,” Sammy said in weak, raspy voice. “How are you, sir?”

“I'm a sight better than you at the moment,” Doc said with a half smile. “But I believe we can change all that if we get some food and water into you and give you a lot of rest.”

“How long have I been here?” Sammy asked, now looking a little more alert and scanning the room.

“We brought you in last Friday, and this is Wednesday morning. Most of that time you've been unconscious, except for some brief periods of rambling delirium. You lost a lot of blood, son. Enough so we weren't sure whether or not you'd be with us.”

Doc Payton began loosening up the bandage to inspect the bullet wound. “There's certainly no question about the Lord making you strong, because you sure tested your constitution,” Doc said as he examined the wound. “This one looks good. Lucky, too, ‘cause it couldn't have missed your lung by more than an inch or so. Broke a couple of ribs on the way out, though. Let me roll you up on your side and take a look at your back. You've got almost fifty stitches back there from a stab wound.”

Doc assisted as Sammy slowly rolled to his right side. “I sure am sore,” Sammy said weakly. “Feel like a bull stomped me for a week.”

“It will be a while before you get a chance to be stomped by anything else,” Doc said as he inspected the back wound. “Looks to be healing up nicely, though. Now you need to eat, drink, rest, and let nature work her magic. Ruth will be here in a moment with some food, and then we'll clean you up some and change out these bandages. Some visitors been by to see how you're doing … the Taylors, Jacqueline, a few of the boys from the T., the sheriff, and some townsfolk. I can't even remember them all now. My office has been like a stage stop. And Lundy's been here every day. Been staying in town since Saturday. He's been a downright pain in the neck,” Doc said, smiling.

Sammy smiled weakly for a moment, and then relaxed into a serious and distant gaze. “I believe I killed that man … but damn if he wasn't tryin’ to kill me.”

“The way everyone's heard it, you didn't have much of a choice. Bernie gave the whole story. A man acting like that in this country more than likely meets a bad end. Nobody knows who he was. His partner skedaddled after he yelled in my door about the fight. Folks said he hot-footed it over to Parker's, collected his rig, and lit out. Sheriff Ritter's got that new deputy, Jason, traveling to Stratford to check the territorial wanted list and see if they can shed some light on who that dead feller was. No sort of identification on him, but a whole lot of money, which has most folks speculating that he didn't come by it honestly. His horse and saddle are at Parker's. No brand on the horse, just the initials L. B. on his saddle. If he had any saddlebags, that other feller's made off with them.”

“Where's my horse?” Sammy asked, concern in his voice.

“I believe he's still down at Parker's.” Doc retrieved a bedpan from under the bed and placed it by Sammy's hip. “Use this when you need to go. Tap on the floor with this cane if you need some help,” Doc said, rattling a cane that hung from the headboard post.

The stairs groaned as the doctor's assistant, Ruth, made a careful ascent with a tray of food. A moment later, she entered the room and walked to the bed where she waited until Doc helped to prop up Sammy. She put the tray carefully on his lap. Ham, eggs, and fried potatoes overflowed the plate and gave off a wonderful aroma that made Sammy salivate.

Doc Payton's eyes widened as he looked at the enormity of the portions. “Well, give ‘er a go,” he said with some skepticism. “Looks like Missus Watson was pretty ambitious about how much your stomach could handle. I imagine it's shrunk up some after five days, so take it easy. Don't make yourself sick.”

“I sure appreciate your concern, Doc, but I believe I could eat the Irish into another potato famine and swallow the roast out of all the beef on the Chisholm Trail. And I'd sure be obliged for some more water. I'm drier ‘n a tumbleweed in a dust storm.” He looked to the table and saw only the glass. “There was a water pitcher here a minute ago.”

Ruth shot Sammy a wry look. “It had an accident,” she said flatly. “Seems as if your senses are in good working order now. You just do as the doctor says and all will be fine.”

“Oh yes, ma'am. I will,” Sammy politely said, understanding that he must have caused the pitcher's end, and feeling that he may have offended her with his witticisms. “I'll make that pitcher up, Missus Jenkins … soon as I'm able. Please thank Missus Watson for her cookin’ … and thank you too for bringin’ it and lookin’ after me.”

His sincerity melted Ruth back to a smile. “You just rest up and get well,” she said with warmth. “I'll pass on your thanks to Jenny Simpson. She made your breakfast. Better eat it while it's still warm.”

“Jenny made this?” Sammy looked down at his plate with a whole new appreciation for what was before him. He picked up his fork and dug in. Halfway through the plate, he knew he couldn't eat another bite, and soon after that he was asleep.