Colorado Sam (13 page)

   They went south on Hunt Street, back the way they'd come. Building shadows had lengthened and a stiff breeze issued from the west, a regular feature of early October evenings in the San Luis Valley. It promised to be a cold night for travelers.

   A two-seated buggy pulled by a team of brown horses with a saddled bay tied to its rear wheel was parked before the Imperial House. At their approach, Mr. Ming and Burt Dawes emerged from the hotel carrying Alana Birdsong's valises. These were piled on the buggy's rear seat atop the saddles and bridles used by Nathan and Alana on their ride to Alamosa seven days ago. Nathan was curious regarding the buggy. He felt himself perfectly capable of traveling on horseback, but again, he deferred to his aunt's judgment. 

   Mr. Ming's final trek into the hotel produced three canteens with canvas shoulder straps and a red carpetbag with golden dragons painted on its sides. The slim Chinaman added these items to the rear seat, and then rearranged the pile to create a place for himself. Alana took up the traces and motioned for Nathan to join her on the front seat. Sam crowded between them. “Once we're beyond town he can run free,” Alana said, and with her flick of the reins they were underway.

   She drove them south on Hunt to Sixth. They crossed the D&RG tracks and Alana swung the buggy westward, their route paralleling the porch of Payne Merchandise. Nathan, always gawking, peered through the windows. Giles, Eldon Payne's clerk, saw him first. The clerk charged to the front of the store, and nose pressed to the glass, examined Nathan and his companions like they were bugs on a microscopic slide. 

   “Hadn't counted on that,” Alana Birdsong admitted. “But it might prove helpful if Eldon learns first hand we departed Alamosa by buggy. We won't forego our final stop, though. Who knows, you might enjoy meeting Luther.”

   “Who's Luther?” Nathan asked around Sam's head.

   “He's the youngest of the Buckman brothers. He worships Roan and would just love to have something important to tell him. We might as well give him his chance, huh, Nephew?”

   The breeze, increasing in strength, ruffled the hair of Sam's chest. Nathan shoved his arms into his mackinaw and buttoned the collar. Alana Birdsong, apparently no more affected by the wind's bite than Sam, drove with a booted foot on the dashboard. When Nathan checked on Mr. Ming and Burt Dawes, the Chinaman was scrunched down behind the front seat, and Dawes, bringing up the rear on his rented horse, was shaking and shivering despite his canvas coat.

   The forge fire of a blacksmith's shop winked and glowed in the fading daylight, and then they were passing a tannery whose odorous stink assaulted their nostrils.    A three-strand barbed wire fence enclosed the last business on Sixth Street. Letters constructed of tree branches and wired to a rectangular metal frame nailed to fence posts spelled out Kerosene, Coal, & Firewood. Mounds of coal and rows of stacked wood surrounded a small log cabin. The coal yard's gates were tied open and Alana Birdsong reined the buggy inside, drew abreast of the cabin's stone stoop, and yelled, “Luther! Luther Buckman! You in there?”

   The person that answered Alana's summons was a combination of his older brothers. Luther Buckman's hair was wavy brown and his eyes hazel like Roan's. His spectacular handlebar moustache and bulging biceps were duplicates of Calvin's. The part of Luther that ran contrary to family bloodlines was his legs. They were pole thin from hip to ankle as if his lower body had forgotten to grow in league with his upper torso. 

   Luther's expression was bland, though contempt and hostility hardened his eyes. “Evening, Mrs. Tanner,” Luther said, seeming to pay no attention to those accompanying Alana. “What's your business?”

   “I'm headed home to the ST. We'll need six five-gallon cans of kerosene and coal for the bedroom fireplaces. I'll send Spud in with the wagon as soon as we finish fall roundup.”

   “Anything for you Tanners long as you pay at pick-up. I ain't no banker, yuh know.”

   “It's a pleasure doing business with you, Luther,” Alana said, snapping the buggy reins.

   They left the coal yard in a rush, raising a swirling cloud of dust. Alana centered the buggy on the westbound road and slowed long enough for Sam to jump down. “Mr. Dawes,” she called over her shoulder, “you have your orders.”

   Per her instructions, Burt Dawes gradually fell behind the buggy. Nathan had reconciled himself to being left in the dark regarding Alana Birdsong's plans for the rest of the evening. This wasn't particularly disconcerting since her actions so far made perfectly good sense. But for all that, he couldn't figure how she intended to sneak them aboard the train to Creede without first sneaking back into town. The train wouldn't stop short of the initial watering tower west of Alamosa, and to intercept it there would require them to traverse rugged country that would tear the wheels from the buggy.

   His doubting of Alana Birdsong ended a few miles down the road. Burt Dawes pounded out of the growing darkness and drew alongside the buggy. “Road's clear. No one followed us from town.”

   “Now it gets interesting, Nephew. By my calculations we've three hours to catch the train to Creede. Hang on.”

   Bracing her feet on the dashboard, Alana reined off the road. She slowed the mares and guided them on a winding course through clumps of sagebrush, greasewood, and cacti. A considerable distance from the road, she halted the buggy, stood, peered in all directions, declared,”This will do,” and stepped to the ground. 

   “Mr. Dawes, please help me unhitch the team while Nathan fetches our riding gear.”

   Nathan shoved aside the luggage piled on the rear seat and lifted his saddle and bridle as well as Alana's from the buggy, remembering Burt Dawes's statement at Girty's that the livery had made available the buggy and the exact horses Alana had requested. His aunt hadn't rented just any team. She'd rented one broken to both harness and saddle. Nathan chuckled softly. The bachelorhood of Seth Tanner had probably fallen prey to the same kind of cleverness.

   While Nathan and Burt Dawes saddled and bridled the buggy team, Alana Birdsong disappeared behind the vehicle with two large valises supplied by Mr. Ming. When she reappeared, she'd shed her silk shirtwaist and fringed leather coat, replacing them with a flannel shirt and a mackinaw similar to Nathan's. She then seated herself on the buggy's running board and exchanged her riding boots for lumberman shoes with top laces. Her final switch was an oversized canvas cap for her Stetson. “How's this?” she asked, stuffing her loose hair beneath the cap. “I usually dress like this only in the middle of winter. Can I pass for a miner?”

   Burt Dawes guffawed. “Yeah, you can. But you're still gonna be the best looking miner in all of Creede.”

   Alana grinned and turned to Mr. Ming in the back seat. “May I have the valise with Nathan's things, please?”

   Mr. Ming complied and Alana brought forth Nathan's square-billed cap and flat-heeled pilgrim boots. “Luckily, Mr. Ming carted these to town with him. You need to doff that Stetson, Nephew, and change your boots. Lots of miners wear Levi's, so the rest of you will pass muster. We may not fool anybody for long. At least we won't draw stares from the Creede crowd the moment we step from the train.”

   After their experience with the male crowd at Girty's, what Alana said made perfectly good sense. During his change of footgear, Alana said, “Mr. Dawes, you have our train tickets and you're clear about your orders?”

   “Yes, ma'am,” Dawes said, digging into a coat pocket. “Mr. Ming and I are to sneak back into Alamosa and watch for Ira. Once he arrives I'm to take him straight to Mr. Abbott. Then Ira and I are to follow you to Creede on the very next train. We're to ask for you at Zhang's Hotel.”

   A pleased Alana folded the train tickets, slid them under her cap, retrieved her Winchester from the front seat of the buggy, and mounted her horse. “Mr. Dawes, just make sure you follow us as soon as possible. I've a nagging suspicion everything won't continue to unfold in accordance with our wishes. And when things go awry I want the both you and Ira Westfall handy.” 

   Nathan straightened from the buggy's running board. “What about Sam?” 

   “Though we can't disguise him, he's coming to Creede with us. Come, Sam,” Alana called, and the huge dog, always lingering close by for her next command, came running from the gloom. 

   Without waiting for Nathan to mount, she turned the buggy horse, thumped his ribs with her lumberman shoes, and set off to the northwest. Nathan, praying the very boldness he admired in her didn't get the both of them killed before Ira Westfall arrived on the scene, clutched the canteens Mr. Ming held out to him, hustled into the saddle, and followed Alana Birdsong and the streaking Sam into the night.

   The D&RG watering tower west of Alamosa hove into view three hours later. Nothing could have pleased Nathan more. He'd experienced enough shifting terrain, shadowed gullies that fooled you into believing they were flat ground, and hostile vegetation to last two lifetimes. And, by then, boiled Levi's or no boiled Levi's, his posterior and thighs were hurting only slightly less than the throbbing ache above his temple. All he could think about was the upcoming train ride on a cushioned seat in a warm passenger coach. Hell's bells, if necessary he'd stand all the way to Creede to escape the saddle and the nighttime cold numbing his nose and fingers.

   Ranging ahead of them, Sam trailed Alana up the grade of the D&RG right of way. They waited short of the tracks for the huge dog to sniff the area around the base of the watering tower and the brush beyond it. When Sam reappeared and sat between the rails, signaling no one was about, they crossed the tracks.

   “Did you train Sam?” 

   “Yes, I've had dogs since I was a child. Sam's not a pet. He's a working guard dog, and I purposely taught him not to trust any man until I tell him otherwise. Beauty, Nephew, brings out the best or the worst in a man and a woman can't always separate the wolf from the honest hound right off.”

   “Uncle Seth didn't mind Sam?”

   “No, he understood that in marrying me he accepted Sam as a member of the family.”  

   They dismounted beside the skeletal legs of the watering tower. Nathan passed Alana one of Mr. Ming's canteens and drank from the other. Far off, down the roadbed toward Alamosa, a faint chuffing could be heard above the wind. 

   Alana screwed the metal cap on her canteen. “Smack on schedule, huh, Nephew? We'll turn the horses loose in the brush and stash our saddles behind the tool shed over there. Whoever chances upon the team will take them back to town. The train's the fastest way to Creede, so I'm not concerned if we lose the two saddles. We best hurry.” 

   Nathan looped the canvas straps of the canteens over his shoulder, after which they led the buggy horses to the tool shed and unsaddled them. Nathan then led the team into the brush a short ways, removed their bridles, and shooed them off with a slap of the rump. 

   When he was in sight of the tracks again, the chuffing they'd heard was much louder. Despite the growing noise, his ear caught a human whistle from the same direction. He threw the bridles atop their discarded saddles, and trotted down the tracks to where Alana, gripping the ruff of Sam's neck, was crouched within a few yards of the right of way. 

   “The caboose should stop about here,” Alana predicted. “We'll soon know if Bull Haines talked to the conductor.”

   Spewing black coal dust from its stack, the 488 to Creede rolled from the darkness in a burst of white steam. Heads showed at every window of the seven passenger coaches, confirming that the lure of quick riches up the line never slackened. Wheels clacked, drivers locked, and the 488 squealed to a halt with its engine aligned beneath the spout of the watering tower.

   The crewmembers riding the caboose dropped to the roadbed, and the “tail-end” brakeman, the End Man, his red lantern swinging to and fro, walked the ties toward Nathan and Alana. At Sam's growl, Alana stroked his head and whispered, “Quiet, boy.”

   Nathan was curious how Alana meant to make the brakeman aware of their presence without causing him to yell out, for they needed to board the train, not alarm its crew. Railroad crews weren't accustomed to legitimate passengers emerging from the night at isolated watering towers, and conductors and brakemen occasionally carried firearms for defense against robbers as well as tramps trying to steal a ride.

   As usual, his aunt's approach was both clever and unique. First, she handed Nathan her rifle and removed her cap, letting her hair spill to her shoulders. She then rose slowly to her feet and called out softly. “I'm a woman. I've a ticket to Creede and Bull Haines arranged for me to board here.” 

   To his credit, the brakeman didn't panic. He fished a stubby Billy club from his coat pocket, sat his lantern on the flat of a tie, and moved back a few strides.     ”Whoever you are, ease into the light with your hands high and empty,” he ordered. 

   Alana stepped between the rails and moved into the light of the lantern, hands high and empty as ordered. “Okay, you're a female. You alone?” the cautious brakeman demanded.

   “No, my nephew and my dog are with me. He has a ticket to Creede, also.”

   “Which one, your dog or your nephew?” 

   Fearful the squaring of his aunt's shoulders presaged an angry outburst that might leave them afoot, Nathan sang out, “Sam and I will move into the light. You'll notice I have a rifle. If you like, I'll lay it on the roadbed and step away from it.”

   “Do that,” the brakeman ordered. “I'll keep the two of you covered while we hunt up the conductor.”

   Nathan gripped Alana's Winchester by the barrel and held it in front of him. It wasn't Nathan or the rifle that wrung a gasp from the trainman. It was Sam's ruby eyes shining in the lantern light. “Holy Mother of God,” the brakeman exclaimed. “If that ain't the biggest dog on earth, elephants can fly.”    

   “Sam, sit!” Alana ordered. Sam immediately sat, which impressed the brakeman greatly. “Too bad I can't sic him on my snooty mother-in-law,” he snickered, pointing at the roadbed. 

   Nathan laid the rifle next to the brakeman's lantern. Pocketing his Billy club, the End Man inched close enough to scoop the rifle from the roadbed and reclaim his lantern. “Mind your dog, ma'am. Our conductor ain't fond of beasts, large or small.” 

   Walking on the brakeman's heels, it struck Nathan that even if he and Alana were permitted to board the train, the chance any conductor would allow Sam, or any dog for that matter, inside his passenger coaches was slim to none, and no railroad allowed dogs to travel in its cabooses. Alana was about to confront a major challenge to her getting Sam to Creede with them.

   They found Conductor Amos Longworth beside the rear passenger coach, listening for the whistle blast that would tell him the watering of the engine had been completed. His uniform coat was immaculate and wrinkle free, every hair of his stiletto beard and waxed moustache perfectly clipped, his cap slanted at a precise angle of his choosing, and his black shoes polished to a high luster. A passenger conductor's authority regarding ticketing and boarding equaled that of an army general, and Amos Longworth's exacting appearance gave every indication he exercised that authority in a manner no less stringent than his military counterpart. Sam's chance of boarding with them suddenly seemed less than none. 

   “Yes, Lonnie?”

   “These two say they have tickets to Creede, Mr. Longworth. They say Bull Haines gave them permission to board here at Parma Tank.”

   Conductor Longworth studied Alana and Nathan. His brow lifted abruptly when Sam stuck his head between them and growled. Unruffled, Conductor Longworth requested their tickets.

   Alana unbuttoned her mackinaw and pulled the paper tickets from a pant's pocket. Conductor Longworth elevated his lantern and read each line-by-line. “These are valid, and the station master did request you be allowed to board here.” Longworth squinted at Alana. “Is that your dog?”

   “Yes, it is,” Alana readily admitted.

   Conductor Longworth frowned. “Dogs aren't permitted on D&RG passenger trains. You and the gentleman may board. The dog stays behind.”

   “But Amos,” Lonnie protested, “He can—“

   “Quiet,” Longworth interrupted. “They'll be no bending of the rules on my watch.”

   The engine whistle blasted. The conductor turned toward the front of the train and swept his lantern in a semi arc. Signal completed, he turned back and said, “Are you going, or staying with the dog, ma'am?”

   Where Nathan expected a vehement protest from Alana, there wasn't a hint of outrage in her voice. “You have our tickets. Come along, Nephew. Sam, stay!”

   The engine whistle blasted twice, and the 488 lurched ahead. Conductor Longworth hustled onto the platform of the nearest passenger coach, checked to see that Alana and Nathan had no trouble mounting the steep steps, and disappeared through the coach's rear door. 

   The majestically calm Alana gently shoved Nathan through the door behind the conductor, leaving her alone on the platform. Nathan just barely heard her sharp whistle over the scrape of wheels and the rattle of the passenger coach as it picked up speed. The conductor didn't hear it at all. Then Alana was inside pushing him down the center aisle and closing the door with a loud bang. A satisfied Amos Longworth shoved his nose into the air, extinguished his lantern, and proceeded into the next car.

   Spying Alana's loose, shoulder length auburn hair, two young swells in Astrakhan fur coats and spanking new top boots laced at the ankles sprang to their feet. The older one bowed and said, “Our mother taught us a gentleman doesn't sit if there's a lady left standing.”

   “Why, thank you,“ Alana said with a sincere smile. 

   “Come on, Sid, we'll crowd in elsewhere.” 

   The fur-coated young swells moved up the center aisle, and as soon as Alana was seated, Nathan followed suit, sinking onto leather cushions lumpy and cracked at the seams, but still soft as cotton beneath his sore haunches.

   He watched Alana stuff her long hair beneath her cap once more. “The brakeman had to see Sam jump onto the platform between cars,” Nathan contended. 

   Alana's laugh had that familiar lilt. “Yes, he probably did. I'm betting neither Lonnie nor the other brakemen will report it to our pompous conductor. Amos may believe he's God, but the brakemen must find him awfully tiresome.” 

   “What happens when we stop again to take on water and coal?”

   “Don't worry. I've traveled this branch line with Seth. It's a three-hour trip and there are five towers between Parma Tank and Creede. Sam will hide under the car at each stop. He won't show himself until I step down in Creede.”

   Nathan squirmed to get comfortable. At least he was riding on something that didn't bounce, and though the coal stove heating the coach was well down the aisle, he was warmer than before and out of the wind. Sleep, however, eluded him. The car's swaying and lurching motion heightened his headache, and he sat staring at the mass of humanity surrounding him, pondering how greatly things had changed for him in just three weeks. 

   He longed for those tedious days of counting inventory at the Tanner warehouse under the watchful eye of Jesse Wiggins. Life had been simple and straightforward and rock solid under his father's stern tutelage, a far cry from his present circumstances. Each day was now a string of unexpected, spontaneous events that were snowballing toward some kind of resolution; a resolution that he was convinced would be violent and bloody. 

   He feared for himself and the beautiful, resourceful woman sleeping beside him. He was afraid she would desperately need his help at some point in time. And deeper down, he was afraid he would be found wanting.