Lost Mountain Pass, page 22
Calhoun nodded and turned around to survey the other riders, all doing the same, climbing off their horses, looking relieved to be out of the saddle—all of them but Hobbs. It looked like he was trying to decide to stay or go. If he decided to ride off, Calhoun didn’t figure he had any choice but to shoot the man. Hobbs knew his true identity, that he was still alive. That might be some valuable information for Hobbs to barter or sell to someone. This wasn’t the time to take any chances.
Hobbs pulled himself off the saddle and settled his feet on the ground, allowing for his life to continue a little longer.
Calhoun relaxed as much as that was possible, then turned his attention back to Gladdy. “Get the rest of the horses settled and meet us at the hotel.”
“Which one?” Gladdy said.
“You think there’s ten to choose from in this flea-speck of a town?”
“No, boss, I guess I don’t.”
“Then use that goddamned brain of yours and find us when you’re finished up here,” Calhoun said as he walked off. “Find out what you can,” he added over his shoulder.
Gladdy stared at the man for a long second, took the grullo’s reins, shook his head, then headed into the barn.
The sky faded from red to pink, finally giving up the fight for color to gray, then to black. Clouds dissipated and pinprick stars pulsed in silver specks overhead. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted and a dog barked. Other than that, it was quiet in Atoka.
* * *
The restaurant was the usual fare found in small Indian Territory towns. Not much more than an alcove filled with tables and chairs, offering little or no atmosphere like a big city restaurant might. Calhoun longed for a Delmonico steak, but knew he was going to settle for beans or something worse. Gladdy had already warned him about that.
The air smelled of grease and smoke, and there were no patrons in the restaurant. A short, overweight Choctaw woman looked up from sweeping with a broom when Calhoun and his crew walked in the door. Only Gladdy was missing. He was still at the livery seeing to the horses.
“We’re closing,” the woman said.
Calhoun led the pack of hungry men, breaking away from them with long strides, and said, “No, you’re not. My men have been ridin’ all day and need fed. And you’re gonna feed them because there ain’t nowhere else in this poor excuse for a town that I see to do that.”
“We don’t have enough food for all of you.” The woman had stopped sweeping. Her round face was expressionless, and the skin was loose around her eyes, showing no tightness or fear. Her words were matter of fact, steady.
The men had stopped behind Calhoun. All of their eyes were on him, tired, hungry, worn out by the ride and in no mood for any kind of resistance. They looked like they could turn into a raging mob at the drop of a penny and tear the place apart for nothing more than the fun of it. Their dusters draped off their shoulders. Dirt had settled in the crevices of their hats, and their spurs were quiet. Every man wore a sidearm within easy reach. There was always the suggestion that more weapons were hidden under their riding clothes, but none of this seemed to intimidate the Choctaw woman.
“What’s your name?” Calhoun said. In an odd way, she reminded him of Maria. He hoped she could cook as well as the Mexican woman had.
“Talli. What’s yours?”
Calhoun almost blurted out his name, almost said Vance Calhoun without thinking about it, but he stopped the words halfway up his throat. He drew a breath and hesitated. The truth was he hadn’t thought about what to call himself. He hadn’t thought that far ahead of his decision to tell the world that he was dead. Whether he had believed the plot would work or not wasn’t important. It had been a quick decision, an easy fix to a big problem that had seemed to have worked—until now. “Joseph Jones,” he said. “My name’s Joseph Jones. Ain’t it, boys? The one and only Joseph Jones from Montgomery, Tennessee.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Hobbs answered back. The rest of the men nodded, grumbled under their breath, shrugged their shoulders or looked to the muddy toes of their boots.
The Choctaw woman didn’t seem to notice or care about the gang’s reaction. “Well, Mister Jones, I can ask our cook Randolph what he can feed you, but it might not be much if you’re gonna insist,” Talli said.
Calhoun smiled. The woman hadn’t flinched at the lie, had believed him straightaway. He liked that. It made him feel good. The name had stuck. “Tell Randolph I’ll pay extra,” he said. “To him and you, Talli. Tell him to find enough food for my men and it will be worth his while.” Calhoun dug into his pocket, pulled out two bits, and handed the coins to the woman. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
This time it was the Choctaw woman’s turn to smile. Her front teeth were missing but that didn’t seem to matter as she took the money, tucked the coins into a pocket in her apron, and hurried off to the kitchen. “Ain’t closin’ now, Randolph. We got payin’ customers, you hear?” she called out as she went.
The smile hadn’t left Calhoun’s face. “Sit down, boys, and make yourselves comfortable.”
No one moved. They waited for Calhoun to sit down first, which he did at the closest table. Hobbs joined him, but no one else did. The remaining four men, all cowboys from the ranch who had been loyal to Haden O’Connor, sat at a table behind Calhoun, leaving two empty seats at the boss’s table.
“I wonder what’s takin’ Gladdy so long,” Hobbs said.
“Gladdy’s a curious kind. He’s asking around to get a feelin’ of the town.”
Hobbs looked at Calhoun like he didn’t agree with him about Gladdy, but didn’t say so, at least not out loud.
Talli hurried out of the kitchen carrying a pot of coffee in one plump hand, and three mugs, grasped with her fingers wrapped through the handles, with her other hand. The smell of fresh brewed coffee followed her as she stopped at the table. “Randolph says there’s tomorrow’s bread you have for tonight,” she said as she set the coffeepot down in the middle of Calhoun’s table, followed by the mugs.
“I appreciate that,” Calhoun said. “And so do my boys.”
Talli smiled as she poured a mug of coffee for Calhoun and handed it to him. “It’s a might strong.”
“Just the way I like it.” Calhoun took a sip of the coffee and watched as Talli poured Hobbs a mug. She was close enough to smell of flour and grease from the day spent in the restaurant. “There haven’t been any strangers through here in the last few days, have there, Talli?” Calhoun set the mug down and stared at the Choctaw with his cold, hard eyes.
Talli froze, going from Calhoun’s table to the next one with the four cowboys. “Strangers? In here?”
“Anywhere.” Calhoun didn’t take his gaze off Talli’s face. She twitched. Had to catch her breath. It was obvious she hadn’t been expecting the question. “In town. I figure you hear everything that happens around these parts, now don’t you?”
“Yes, Mister Jones, I usually do.” Talli broke the stare-down between the two of them and looked away to the door that led outside. Randolph banged some pots and pans in the kitchen. The smell of warm bread replaced the smell of the Indian woman and the coffee.
“Well, has there been any strangers in town?” Calhoun persisted. His voice was edged with the tone of a threat that silently said, don’t make me ask again.
“There was a couple of riders who took refuge at Saint Patrick’s church for the night.” Talli moved to the table and put the remaining mug down. She filled them both, eyeing the mugs, then turning her attention back to Calhoun, then back to the coffee. She was suddenly as nervous as a rabbit on the run. “Then there’s always the train that comes and goes. Not many folk stay here. They’re usually on their way to Oklahoma Station or parts farther north, Kansas, you know.” Talli paused, then turned her attention to the cowboys. “I’ll be right back with three more mugs.”
None of the men said anything. They all stared at her, not interfering in the conversation she was having with Calhoun. Talli started to head toward the kitchen, but Calhoun grabbed her elbow and stopped her mid-stride.
“Tell me about these riders. Was one of them a marshal?” Calhoun said.
Talli didn’t try to wriggle out of Calhoun’s tight grasp, but her brown skin turned a shade lighter. “Yes,” she said. “I think so.”
“What’d they do while they were here?” Calhoun asked, tightening his grip a little harder. He was starting to enjoy himself, could see the discomfort on the woman’s face. She wasn’t hurting . . . yet.
“I don’t know. Word was the other one used to be a priest, but he wasn’t allowed in the church. They left out the next mornin’ and headed west. Neither man came here for a meal, I don’t know any more about them than what I done told you.”
“West? Where west?” Calhoun loosened his grip, then let go of Talli. All he wanted her to know was that he could hurt her if he wanted to. He didn’t want to spoil his dinner and cause her to run off.
“I don’t know,” Talli said, stepping back, rubbing her arm. An impression of Calhoun’s fingers was left behind. “I swear, I don’t know, Mister Jones.”
“Okay. Go on, get us our food and coffee. We ain’t got all night.”
Talli didn’t need to be told twice. She hurried off and disappeared into the kitchen before Calhoun could say another word.
All the men remained quiet. The mood didn’t lighten when Gladdy finally walked in the door, followed by a burst of cool night air. Oil lamps flickered in his wake as he made his way to Calhoun’s table. His spurs jingled, and his boots thudded on the wood floor, echoing throughout the restaurant. He stood for a second and waited to be told what to do.
“Go on, sit down,” Calhoun said. “What’d you find out?”
Gladdy took the empty seat across from Calhoun and looked at the empty coffee mug. “I was right to think we was on their trail. Dawson’s been through here. Ridin’ with another man. A priest who wears a gun.”
“I already know that.” Calhoun glared at Gladdy, then looked over his shoulder to the kitchen and tapped his fingers on the table at the same time.
“Word is the priest is kin to the woman who shot that judge that Dawson was escortin’ back to Muskogee.”
“Kin you say?” He had Calhoun’s attention now. “That’s news.”
Gladdy smiled, then said, “They’re not far off that woman’s tail. She was through here, too. Outrunnin’ Wanted posters before they hit the nail and everybody knew her face.”
“Where was she headed?” Calhoun said.
Gladdy didn’t answer. He watched Talli make her way to the table carrying two bowls of steaming soup. The smell of sweet broth permeated the room, reminding Calhoun and every other man in the café how hungry they were. Talli was followed by an Indian man who it was assumed was Randolph the cook. He was thin as a rail with thick black hair cut square around his head like a bowl had been used as a guide for the scissors. Randolph carried two bowls of the soup and a loaf of bread. The Indians distributed the soup, serving Calhoun first, along with giving him the bread, then headed back into the kitchen.
Calhoun didn’t wait and slurped up a helping of the soup. To his surprise, the broth tasted of fresh chicken, and there were some carrots and beans mixed in with a little meat. He only stopped to break off a bit of bread, then went on eating. Talli and Randolph returned with the rest of the bowls, then again to serve the remaining coffees. Randolph headed back to the kitchen and Talli stayed behind.
“Good?” she said to Calhoun.
“Yes, it is. We had jerky on our ride here. This’ll be a fine meal,” he answered.
“Save some room for some huckleberry pie.” Talli smiled and started to walk off.
“You didn’t tell me there’d been a white woman through here too,” Calhoun said. He’d dropped his spoon on the table and glared at her.
Talli looked to Gladdy and put two and two together. “You asked if any men had been through. I thought you were only interested in the marshal and the man he was ridin’ with.” Her response was too quick, tinged with a nervous crack in her voice.
Calhoun stood up, towering over the Indian woman. All of the men except Gladdy stopped eating. He dipped at the soup like a dog who’d been deprived of food and water for a month. His slurps filled the small café with a disgusting sound.
“Would you stop it, Gladdy,” Calhoun demanded. “You got the manners of a cow.”
“Sorry, boss. I was hungry.”
“You think this here woman is tellin’ the truth, Gladdy? That white woman’s a killer. Why do you think nobody would tell us she was through here? Why would they hide a white woman?” Calhoun held Talli’s gaze even though he was talking to Gladdy.
“Don’t know, boss,” Gladdy said. “Other than she’s married to an Indian.”
“An Indian, you say?” Calhoun crossed his arms, doing his math about the situation he’d found himself in. “A Choctaw?”
“Yes, boss? How’d you know that?” Gladdy said.
“Lucky guess.” Calhoun stepped forward so he was within inches of Talli. She didn’t move, didn’t step back. A line of perspiration bubbled on top of her forehead. “You want to tell me what this is about, Talli? I ain’t in the mood to hurt no one. You and Randolph have showed us a kindness, and that soup was awful tasty. I’m hopin’ that huckleberry pie tastes just as good. But I need to know everything you know about this woman, you hear me? I ain’t gonna hurt you unless you lie to me, then I’ll kill you right here and now. You best believe that, woman.”
Talli trembled and nodded. “I believe you. I do. But I don’t know the woman you speak of. I know her husband, David. David Folsom. He’s got kin here.”
“In this town?” Calhoun said.
Talli nodded again. Her eyes were glazed, watery; she was on the verge of tears.
“Is he here? This David Folsom?”
“No,” Talli said. “He’s been up in No Man’s Land for a spell, but word is he’s on his way to meet up with his woman.”
“Where?” Calhoun said.
“I don’t know.” Talli sucked in a deep breath of air. “My guess is Oklahoma Station.”
“Why?” Calhoun sighed and looked to the ceiling. “I hate that town.”
“I heard unfinished business is all.”
“What kind of unfinished business?”
“Something to do with the white woman’s brother. It’s all I know,” Talli said. “I swear. Please don’t kill me, I’ve got children at home.”
“I ain’t gonna kill you,” Calhoun said. “You gave us some good soup. Best food I’ve had since I left home. Is there anything else you ain’t tellin’ me? The marshal and that priest, they were on the white woman and Folsom’s trail?”
Talli nodded as the color came back to her face and the fear of dying seemed to subside. “I think so. But there were other men askin’ questions about that marshal too. Said there was a bounty on his head and they aimed to get it.”
Calhoun cocked his head and tapped his ear to make sure it was working properly. “A bounty you say? On Trusty Dawson?”
“That’s what they said. Come from a man in Saint Louis willin’ to pay a thousand dollars for the kill.”
“Well,” Calhoun smirked, “ain’t that somethin’. You hear that, boys? Looks like there’s gonna be a payday for your troubles. Dawson’s got a price on his head.” Put there, he went on to think, but didn’t say, by Theodore Marberry. It had to be. That sure would clear things up for Calhoun. There was only one reason Calhoun could think of why Marberry would want the marshal dead: Jessica and her baby daughter. If it was true, Calhoun wouldn’t have to wonder or not if he had been bamboozled by Jessica Marberry Tennyton. He would know for sure. “Hurry up, boys, we got a ride to make and some money to collect.”
Chapter 22
Fort Robinson, Nebraska, winter 1879
A cold hard wind blew out of the north, sweeping across the Platte River with a freezing bluster that only January could bring. From Sam’s saddle the ice on the river looked flat and solid. A drift of snow had piled up a foot high on the opposite bank, sweeping the flakes from the surface of the frozen water. The Platte looked like a melancholy gray ribbon of a road snaking to the east and west. The grayness of the ice was a reflection of the sky and Sam’s mood. Being out in the weather was reason enough for the misery he felt, once again on the trail of Dull Knife, who had escaped with most of his captive band of Cheyenne from Fort Robinson. It should have been easy enough to track over a hundred Indians on the run in the winter when the flat land was covered with snow and ice. And there were unmistakable signs to follow, but with his eyes glazed over, watered from the blustery cold, and his heart and mind a thousand miles away, he could have ridden straight into an ambush without seeing it coming. Minutes before the call came for him to ride, a letter had arrived all the way from England. Jessica’s letters were usually thick, at least ten pages long full of captivating descriptions of her days, of her learning, of the events and sights she had gone to see, but this letter was thin; one page and half of it was blank. The only sentence that mattered was the one that Sam carried with him, and repeated over and over in his mind as he searched for Dull Knife:
I am getting married to a man named Bower
Tennyton on the thirtieth of March.
Even in the blinding push of wind, Sam could see the words as plainly as if they were written on the river’s ice. He sat motionless on the army mount, a staid chestnut gelding who moved to Sam’s commands like one of the best soldiers in the military, staring into the distance but not really seeing it. The horse was as leery of the river as Sam was.
Another rider joined Sam on the bank of the river, a female Apache, an Indian scout called Woman’s Clothes, wrapped in a hooded buffalo coat and leggings, her hands covered in rabbit fur mittens. It would have been almost impossible to know the rider was a woman with the way she was dressed, but Sam knew. He had ridden with Woman’s Clothes before. Her scouting and tracking skills were unequaled, even if she was a woman—which as far as Sam was concerned gave her the advantage of low expectations and the element of surprise. Woman’s Clothes could go places that some would not have dared. Sam had learned a lot just by riding alongside her since he had taken the role of scout in the army. Most of the time, the Apache was quiet, listening to the world around her, and spoke little. Her discomfort around white men was obvious, and Sam had wondered more than once why the woman had agreed to scout for the army. He didn’t know her story, and he had never asked. The discomfort worked both ways.
