The Long Trail Home (10 page)

“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?

Lord, it's like you're naggin' at me! You've ignored me and let me go my way for years, and now you're nagging me!

I do believe this is my last trip to Dodge City.

A big, tall man with a neatly trimmed, salt and pepper beard rested his elbows on the hitching rail in front the Chicago Meat Packing office, watching two wagons full of bleached buffalo bones, stacked sixteen feet high, roll down Front Street. “That's a lot of bones,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Sam stopped beside the man. “There's a lot more out on the prairie.”

“Yep, but there won't be forever. Then, everyone out here— including the Indians—will have to eat beef instead of buffalo,” the man reasoned. “You just come up the trail?”

Fortune pushed his stiff Stetson with old, rawhide stampede string to the back of his head. “Hard to hide, isn't it?”

“You got cattle to sell? I'm the buyer.”

Sam straightened his new black tie and brushed his thick mustache with his fingertips. “No, sir. I'm reppin' for Mr. Rocklin.”

“Rocklin? Well, it's about time you showed up. Your crew pushed in here over two weeks ago.”

“That's what I heard. They were supposed to rendezvous down near the Canadian in the Public Lands.”

“Well, they said the trail boss took a spill and died coming across the Red Desert. So, they hunted around a little for Rocklin, but he didn't show, so they pushed them up. I bought them.”

“You what?”

The man stroked his chin whiskers. “I said, ‘I bought them out.'”

The suit coat suddenly felt tight across Sam's shoulders. “They weren't for sale. They were going to be foundation stock.”

“Out in Public Lands?” The man spit a chaw of tobacco about ten feet out into the wide, dusty street. “Cows can't live out there. There's no water.”

“That's for Rocklin to decide. How can you buy twelve hundred beef from a man who doesn't want to sell them?”

“Look, mister, that's for your boss and crew to discuss. I've been holdin' the Wells Fargo banknote for Rocklin.”

“But I'm supposed to take the herd and crew out to the ranch.”

“I paid them off out of his profits. Most of them went back to Texas, I reckon. As far as the herd, you can tell Rocklin to come to Dodge and pick out the ones he wants from another herd. I'll sell them for the same price per head as I bought them. These Jayhawkers are gettin' scared of Texas fever in the cattle. They won't let us bed them down north of the tracks anymore. They want them loaded in boxcars immediately and shipped east. So that's what I did. “Let's go get that draft. You do have a power of attorney on you, don't you?”

Fortune reached into his vest pocket. “Yep.”

“Good, I'll draw you up a receipt and send you on your way.”

“How much is that banknote worth, anyways?”

The man pulled a small notebook and stubby pencil from his suit pocket, then flipped through the pages. “Rocklin has a note for twenty-two thousand and four hundred dollars.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Dodge City, Kansas,

Queen of the Cowtowns

Sam Fortune entered Big Mike Feeney's Grocery Store wearing new ducking trousers and a new white cotton shirt. The three-piece suit and tie that Rachel had chided him into buying were folded neatly in his bedroll, lashed behind the cantle of his saddle. The long-legged buckskin was hitched to the rail in front of the store.

When he left the store, Sam toted a baby loaf of yellow cheese, two dozen sticks of buffalo jerky, and a two-pound tin of salt crackers. Like a small, striped cigar, a red and white peppermint stick pinched proudly between his lips.

He tethered the grub sack in front of the fork of the saddle and tugged his new hat down in the front.

If I ride all night, I could make the ranch around noon. Providing the horses hold up and the moon's bright enough to ride . . . and I don't fall asleep and tumble off into one of those barrancas. Well, good-bye ol' paint . . . I'm leavin' . . . Dodge City. It isn't the right words to the song, but the message fits. You've seen your day come and go, cowtown—and so have I.

Sam swung up into the saddle and untied the lead rope of the red roan. He plodded the horses west on Front Street. At the edge of town, he pivoted in the saddle and leaned on the buckskin's rump while tipping his new Stetson.

A gold reflection caught his eye.

Gold earrings.

On a man.

Like a pirate.

He and another man with full beard shoved open the tall, narrow doors of the Long Branch Saloon and disappeared inside. Sam jerked the horses around and trotted them to the rail in front of the saloon.

He left the Sharps carbine hanging on the saddle. Sam pulled his Colt out of his holster and shoved it into his sogan. He bit off the wet end of the peppermint stick and shoved the rest into his bedroll as well.

Inside the Long Branch a big, bald, black man pounded an out-of-tune piano. Sam distinguished shouts from a card game, curses from disgruntled drinkers, and an occasional giggle from one of the brightly dressed girls. Cigar and cigarette smoke drifted across the room. The floor felt gritty under his boots. An aroma of whiskey and sweat wafted from most every person and object in the room.

On the far wall, next to the back door, Fortune spotted the man with earrings. His partner had his back toward the bar.

Along with half a dozen customers, Fortune leaned against the polished wood and brass bar.

“Sam, is that you?”

Fortune stared into the friendly eyes of the tall, slender bartender with thin brown hair and hawklike nose.

“Talbert?”

“Yeah. How about this?” he pointed at the white apron he wore. “Bet you never thought you'd see me in an honest job.”

Sam pushed his new hat back and grinned. “It's a long way from dodgin' bullets down on Delaware Ridge.”

“Ain't that the truth.” Talbert looped his thumbs through his bib apron straps. “I got me an honest woman, an honest job, and an honest little house with a picket fence around it. I like it, Sammy. It fits me.”

Sam pushed his hat back even farther and scratched his neatly trimmed hair.
Is this the man who once shoved open the front door on that log cabin and dared the entire posse to come through?
“Talbert, I'm happy for you.”

“You're lookin' scrubbed up and good, Sammy. Someone told me Judge Parker hung you.”

“I did have a run-in with the judge, but he decided three years in prison would cure me.”

“Did it?”

“Look at me, Talbert—new trousers and shirt, shaved up, and a new Stetson. What does that tell you?”

“Either you jist robbed a bank, or you got yourself a legitimate job. Did you leave the Territory?”

Glancing at the mirror behind the bar, he could see the man with the gold earrings still drinking. “I'm reppin' for a rancher out in the Public Lands.”

“That's good . . . that's real good, Sam. A man has to pull out of that life before he carries too much lead. Now, you never were a drinkin' man, so what are you doing in the Long Branch?”

Fortune nodded toward the back door. “There's a couple of bushwhackers in here I wanted to . . . eh . . . visit with—but I can't remember their names.”

“Who's that?”

Sam dropped his voice down a little lower. “One of 'em wears gold earrings, like a pirate. And the other has . . .”

One of the girls began a frenzied dance next to the piano. Several onlookers clapped in tune.

Talbert pointed to his own hand. “Has both middle fingers missin'?”

Sam practically shouted to be heard, “Yeah.”

The piano and the clapping softened. Talbert leaned across the bar. “You ain't got your pistol in that holster, do you?”

“Nope.” Sam showed him the empty holster.

“Good.” The bartender shielded his lips with his hand. “'Cause it's against the law to pack in the city limits, and I don't want you gettin' in a gunfight right before my eyes.”

“A gunfight? I didn't say I wanted to kill them. I just wanted to know their names.”

Talbert stood straight and squared his shoulders. “Sammy, there ain't nobody that looks for McDermitt and Burns unless he's after a gunfight. They are mean and stupid. It's a dangerous combination.”

Fortune watched the two men's reflections in the mirror. “Which one is which?”

“Burns has the earrings.”

“Do they tote sneakguns?” Fortune investigated.

“Do you?” Talbert replied.

Sam grinned and rocked back on his heels. “Talbert, you know me better than that.”

“Them is the type you can't guarantee anything, Sammy. They've been arrested a couple times this week already for carrying guns in the city limit—so, you'd think they'd learn. I'd bet anything they pack knives in their boots.”

“Who are they, Talbert? I never heard of 'em until I was down in Antelope Flats.”

“When they get soused up, they like to brag that they rode with Frank and Jesse James. But I don't have any reason to believe them. They seem to be in town ever' time someone gets back shot and robbed. Remember those Orval brothers down at McAllisters that sliced up that woman and her kids? These two are like that, only crazier and more brutal. Don't turn your back on them, Sammy.”

“I need to have a little talk with them.”

“What about?”

“They beat up a friend of mine.”

“Who?”

“Piney Burleson.”

“No! Piney? Is she all right?” the bartender asked.

“She won't ever be all right again, Talbert.”

The bartender shook his head. “That ain't right.”

“That's why I need to have a little talk with them.”

The bartender rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “You need help?”

“Talbert, you've got a good job, a good wife, and a good little house with a picket fence. Don't jeopardize that. Take some trash out back or somethin'. Then, when you come in, tell them an old acquaintance from down in the Territory is out in the alley and needs to tell them somethin'.”

Talbert glanced at the back door. “You goin' to take 'em both on?”

“You said they were dumb. Give me three minutes to get around back.”

“I also said they was mean.” Talbert plucked up a circular tin trash can. He also pulled a three-foot, hickory axe handle out from under the counter and jammed it into the two-foot can. “This billy-whacker is gettin' old. Think I'll toss it out into the second barrel on the left.”

Sam gazed back at the men. A heated debate brewed between them. The piano music picked up, and one of the girls sang “My Home Is on the Prairie, But My Heart Sails Off at Dawn.”

Talbert leaned over the bar. “Did you hear me?”

“Axe handle, second barrel. Yeah . . . thanks, Talbert.”

“What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them I got news from down in the Territory, and I need to talk to both of them in private.”

“Are you sure you know what you're doin', Sammy?”

“I haven't known for sure what I was doin' since you and me jumped off that Missouri, Kansas, and Texas Railroad mail car five years ago.”

The bartender's eyes lit up. “How did we ever live through that?”

“It was the grace of God, I reckon.”

Talbert's eyes widened and his eyebrows rose. “I believe you're right, but I never thought I'd hear those words from your lips.”

Fortune turned and watched three men stroll in the front door of the Long Branch.
Neither did I, Talbert Manning . . . neither did I.

Sam slipped out of the saloon, looped his empty holster over the saddle horn. He rolled up his sleeves as he marched to the alley behind the Long Branch. The back door also worked as a loading door. It was four feet wide with a ten-foot ramp down to ground level. Several oak barrels, tucked against the back wall, served as rubbish containers. He spotted the tip end of an axe handle sticking out of the middle barrel.

The alley was half sun, half shade. Fortune stood in the shade with the brim of his hat pulled low. The afternoon sun lit up the door.

The bearded McDermitt shoved open the door and squinted as he tried to adjust to the direct sunlight.

He stretched his neck forward. “Mister, you want to see me?” he blustered.

“Where's Burns? I need to talk to both of you,” Fortune called out.

The man never moved from the doorway. “What for?”

“I've got somethin' for you and him.”

“Bring it to me, I'll take it to him.”

“How do I know you'll share it with him?”

“Share what?”

“The reward,” Fortune tempted.

“What reward?”

“I don't want to yell it all over town,” Fortune baited. “It's from a lady down in Indian Nation.”

The big man took several steps down the ramp. “Did Belle Star send you up here with our cut?”

“All I can say aloud is that I'm supposed to give you and Burns equal shares. I don't want to go back and tell her I only did half the job.”

“I'll get Burns.” The man scurried up the ramp and back into the saloon.

Within moments both men burst through the wide door. Big smiles creased dirty faces, hats rakishly tilted to the right.

Burns's earrings sparkled in the afternoon sun as he shuffled down the ramp and into the shade. “So she decided we didn't need to wait until September?”

Sam held fine, dry, alley dirt in his clenched left hand. “She figured the sooner you two got paid off, the better.”

“That's exactly what I tried to tell her all along!” McDermitt added, rubbing his beard. Sam noticed the man's missing fingers.

“Did Belle send gold dust or coins?” Burns asked as he approached.

“Come here; let me show you a sample,” Sam offered, holding the clenched fist in front of him.

“Where's the rest of it?” McDermitt peeked over the shorter Burns's shoulder and watched Fortune's hand.

“Don't worry. You'll get your whole share. But there is one thing you ought to know: Belle Star didn't send me up here.”

“Who did?” Burns asked.

“Piney Burleson,” Sam announced.

“Who in hades is Piney Burleson?” McDermitt blustered.

“Oh, you remember. She's about six foot tall, thin, with long blond hair. She lives in Antelope Flats. You about busted your toes kickin' her head in. Remember?”

Burns reached for his boot top, but the dirt in Sam's hand blasted his face. Fortune caught the man's chin with the palm of his hand and slammed his head straight back, catching McDermitt square in the forehead.

The bearded man staggered back and tumbled off the side of the ramp. He landed on his back in the alley dirt. Fortune's knee found the pit of Burns's stomach. An uppercut to the chin, followed by a resounding left jab and a right hook, sent Burns cussing and tumbling to his back.

Sam dodged McDermitt's wild roundhouse, but he couldn't escape the man's grasp. Both of them tumbled to the dirt. The full impact of Fortune's elbow slammed into the bearded man, busting the skin. The big man tried to pull away as blood dripped into his eyes, but two right crosses to the chin left McDermitt struggling to remain on his hands and knees.

Burns lunged at Sam with a one-foot blade hunting knife. Sam heard his shirt tear and felt a red-hot gouge streak across his side. Burns was off balance from the lunge, and Sam shoved him back until he tripped over his partner, sending both men to the ground.

Fortune dove for the oak barrel and snatched out the axe handle. This time when Burns came at him with the knife, Sam slammed the hickory into the man's arm, just above the wrist.

Bones broke.

The knife dropped.

Burns screamed and dropped to his knees in agony.

McDermitt, still on his hands and knees, reached down for his knife. Sam's boot caught the man right behind the ear and sent him sprawling on his back. The bearded man raised his right boot to pull his knife, but the axe handle crashed into his shin. It sounded like a dry limb cracking under the weight of a wagon wheel.