Lost Mountain Pass, page 29
Once he was finished with the chore of preparing Horse, Trusty remained inches from his ride, his head down with the rim of his faded blue Cavalry Stetson resting on the saddle. He was listening to the two men in the next stall talk among themselves. The pair had got his attention and made him want to know more about them. Caution and suspicion came easy to him these days.
At first glance, the men seemed harmless enough, sewing machine salesmen making their way across the prairie, plying the marvel of the Singer Manufacturing Company to women in need of more time that the modern invention afforded them. It was the taller man of the two especially bothered Trusty. There was a darkness about the man’s choice of dirty gray clothes and his sidearms—a Colt .45 on each hip—that seemed out of place for a salesman. This man’s hardened eyes suggested that he was more of a hired gunslinger than a man who hocked wares for a living; they were as black as the steel and cast-iron sewing machines that sat in crates loaded on a wagon outside the livery. The shorter of the two men was tending to a lone horse, a swayback black draft mare with white stockings above her hooves that Trusty supposed was set to lead them on their sales route.
“We’ve hit a vein of luck with this weather, Miles, but I fear it’s not going to hold. I think we should head south instead of west.” Miles was the one that Trusty was concerned about, dark and unamused by the shorter man’s expression of fear. Names always helped—if they could be relied on to be true. The man speaking was short and thin in a fit way, not a hungry, sickly way. He was outfitted in natty clothes fresh off of a tailor’s needle, a crisp blue shirt, clean white collar, and a brown tweed vest. He wore a thick suede overcoat with a rabbit fur collar, clean of any lint or dirt and open, not buttoned down for extreme temperatures. A struggling farmer would see the short man coming from a mile off and know he was a huckster of some kind; though at the moment, the sewing machines appeared to be a legitimate concern, not snake oil or other flights of fancy. A Singer could change the life of any woman who could afford and learn how to operate the mechanical contraption.
Miles shook his head, objected to the change in plans with a grunt, then said, “West is the route we agreed upon, Mister Carmichael, and that’s the route we take. I got my reasons to go west and you’ve got your prospects along the way. I say we go now like was planned.”
Carmichael held fast, planted his feet firmly on the straw-strewn floor, acting as if he were the one in charge. “Do you know where you are?”
Trusty peered over the saddle as he began to fuss with his bedroll—a thick buffalo blanket—tightening it down again, giving himself a reason to stay inside the stall and listen. Horse snorted and kicked his rear leg hard enough to toss a bit of straw into the air. The roan had a restless streak in him that Trusty recognized and appreciated, but he wasn’t going to be called off the two men by the beast. Both of the salesmen knew he was there but weren’t paying any attention to him that he could tell.
Carmichael and Miles stood opposite each other, both of them looking like mules refusing to budge. The short man made the first move. “It was my friends and colleagues, Holland Freeman and Earl Lancaster, who set out on a fine winter day much like this one that brung us here in the first place. They journeyed away from Bismarck enjoying a rare, warm January day with coats unbuttoned, immune to any icy touch, or so they thought, as they made their calls on one soddie to the next. Them and a whole lot of other folk who’d lived on this land for the ages thought they’d been allowed to breathe safely from the wrath of winter who should have knowed better. A whoosh of wind straight down from the north with the force of a monster, bringing with it a blizzard that no one was prepared for or had seen the like of ever before. Them two fellas, as fine a Singer salesmen as was ever seen in this territory, plum froze to death, just like more than two hundred other people, a lot of them children, lost in the blizzard, seekin’ their way home with nary a coat or scarf around their necks. Just because the sky is clear right now don’t mean it can’t change on the turn of a bird’s wing. This is the Dakota Territory. You can’t trust what you see with your own eyes. I ain’t ready to freeze to death, Miles, and I doubt you are either. South is a safer bet for livin’ another day. I am certain of it.”
Miles stiffened, looked down on Carmichael since he towered over him a good five inches, and shook his head again. “Don’t matter if we go south or west. A wind like what you say shows up, ain’t nobody gonna outrun it. We go west, you hear?” It was then that Miles tore his attention away from Carmichael and made eye contact with Trusty. “You got a problem, stranger?” His voice was hard, and his jaw set forward as he took in the man he saw, assured now that he was being listened to.
“Not at all,” Trusty said. “Just finishin’ up with my horse and I’ll be on my way. Your friend there is right though. From what I’ve seen around here it’s best not to trust the sky overhead. I heard tell of that Children’s Blizzard that befell so many families back in January. Winter up this way seems to have an appetite for fools and the unattended.”
“You callin’ me a fool?”
“I’m not callin’ you anything. Just makin’ a statement is all.”
“If I want to know what you think, I’ll ask you.”
Trusty forced a smile, patted Horse, and walked to the front of the stall the two men stood in and stopped, blocking any exit from it. Like Miles, he was outfitted to ward off trouble if it came his way. One holster was armed with a Colt .45 with carved ivory grips and a six-inch barrel. His belt was fully complemented with cartridges, and a Bowie knife hung opposite the pistol. A single gun was enough for him. If it wasn’t, then his Winchester ’73 was waiting in the scabbard on Horse’s right side. “Suit yourself, friend, but I’d heed your partner’s warning. Blizzards are as common here as rattlesnakes in Texas.”
Miles judged Trusty head to toe like he was an opponent of some kind. He let his gaze stop on the badge on Trusty’s chest. “Never been to Texas so I wouldn’t know. Like I said, you need to mind your own business, Marshal. Ain’t nothing that concerns you here. We’re honest, hardworkin’ men, lookin’ for our next sale is all.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Now, now, Miles,” Carmichael said, butting in, “it ain’t prudent to be rude to a Deputy U.S. Marshal. He didn’t mean no disrespect, Marshal, we’re just starting out as a team. We’ve got a lot to learn about each other’s ways.”
Miles sneered at Carmichael, and for a second Trusty thought the tall man was going to smack the short man in the mouth, but that didn’t happen. Miles unclenched his fist and smiled, offering the first bit of charisma since the conversation began.
“You gentlemen have a fine day, and be careful out there,” Trusty said, holding Miles’s stare before he set one boot in front of the other and headed for the open door of the livery. “I hope you have good luck on your trip.” He didn’t wait for a response, just kept on walking until he was outside the wind-blasted gray barn, glad to be free of the tension, smell of horse shit, and to have the warmth of the winter sun beating down on his face. It was then, just beyond the door, that Trusty glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Miles’s gaze following him outside. Trusty nodded, then headed toward Delaney’s office, allowing his hand to dangle as close to his Colt as it needed to be—just in case the call for the pistol came from a man Trusty was sure had come to collect the generous bounty that sat upon his head. It was better to be prepared and wrong than to be dead.
* * *
Marshal Michael Delaney remained sitting behind his simple oak desk when Trusty walked into the office. Delaney wore a perfectly trimmed horseshoe mustache, white as Dakota snow and thick as a drift, the size of a thumb. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and was hunched over a stack of papers, mumbling to himself as he ran his long, narrow finger down a ledger. “I’ve been expecting you, Dawson. Sit down.” Delaney didn’t look up, didn’t dare losing his place among the numbers. The order was firm enough launched as it was by his deep, gravelly voice.
Trusty did what he was told and took a seat in a solid chair that fronted the desk. A curtainless window stood behind Marshal Delaney with bright, golden light penetrating the office, making the room more hospitable than it would any other time of the day; the color tones were usually marked by cold, gray uninspired shadows. This wasn’t Trusty’s first visit to the marshal’s office, and it wouldn’t be the last, but there was an institutional smell to the place and a sense of confinement that didn’t appeal to any of his senses. He was always quick to leave after any necessary marshal business had been conducted.
“I’m assuming you’ve already cashed out?” Delaney said, looking up as he settled back into his red leather chair.
“Yes, sir. I plan on stopping at the bank on my way out of town.”
“In a hurry to leave Bismarck?”
“No more than normal. I had enough of city life as a boy.”
“Saint Louis if I recall.”
“That’d be correct, sir. My father still owns a blacksmith shop there.”
“Explains your build and demeanor a bit, doesn’t it?”
Trusty didn’t show the flinch on the outside that he felt on the inside. He’d given up the hammer and all of the work that came along with forging iron in exchange for something useful a long time ago. The early days of his life, however, muscles to some extent, broad shoulders, and workingman hands, gave away the experience and forced occupation of his boyhood. He tried not to think too much about the past, those days when fire and smoke seemed to be his only kin. His father was a cold and distant man with a taste for whiskey, especially after Trusty’s mother had died and left the two of them to survive each other’s presence.
“I suppose so,” Trusty said with a glance to the toes of his boots.
“You get back to Saint Louis often? I’m partial to the city, myself. It’s always buzzing with excitement. People coming and going every day.”
“I try to avoid going home if I can. Especially now.”
“There’s still no word on Marberry’s location, if you were wondering. He’s disappeared.”
“I’ve been given to understand that Marberry isn’t my problem or my assignment.”
“You understand correctly.” Delaney drew in a deep breath and leaned forward. “It makes no difference why he has offered a bounty for your life; the fact is he has, and we will find him and hold him to account while you continue on with your duties here. I will ask you again, do you want to ride with another marshal to help look over your shoulder?”
“I ride alone.”
“I figured that’s what you would say. Have it your way, then. I have a warrant I want you to collect on, Dawson. I think you’re the right man for the job. It will be your sole focus until the paper is served.”
“Just one warrant, sir?”
“There’ll be plenty of mileage to compensate you for the lack of multiple assignments.”
“It’s not that, sir. I’m not concerned about the money.”
“What then?”
“Coming back to town so soon after I leave.”
“This won’t be an easy card to pocket. You’ll head south, then back north again if what I’ve been told proves true. I think you’ll have a challenge with this one. The ride will be long. You won’t be returning to Bismarck anytime soon.”
“Okay, that suits me. What do you have?”
“A Yanktonai Sioux called Charlie Littlefoot. Tried and accused of raping a white woman in Fort Yates, a captain’s wife who is now with child. Littlefoot escaped the jail and is thought to be heading north into Canada. On the run, dangerous and smart. Just the kind of challenge you like. First thing I need you to do is head to Fort Yates and make sure the story is straight. Then if everything adds up, you’ll need to track down Littlefoot.”
A grin flashed across Trusty’s face. He liked the sound of a long tracking journey. “Canada’s a little out of our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”
“I’ve paved the way for you to meet up with a Mountie from Wascana, Henri Bisset, if it comes to that. That is if you have to cross the border. Bisset is a good man. You’ll like him. We’ve had some dealings in our time.”
Trusty settled back in the chair and began to have second thoughts about the assignment. He tried to think of a way to get out of the orders. Canada in December was the last place he wanted to be. “Why me, Marshal? You have deputies who have more experience with the Yanktonai and that part of the country than I do. I don’t have any knowledge at all of that corner of the world, especially Canada if I end up there.”
“You’ll be a fresh set of eyes. Besides that, I’m hoping nobody knows who you are that far north—including Charlie Littlefoot. He’s faced trouble before and knows most of my badges by their first names.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Whiskey arrests. The usual. Nothing violent or mixed with white folk from the fort, which is why I want you to poke around before you try to pick up his trail. Something about this smells off to me.”
What Delaney said made sense to Trusty, but it still felt like more punishment for his unresolved troubles than a tried-and-true strategy. Sooner or later, he was going to have to find a way to travel to St. Louis to confront Theodore Marberry, the man who had put a price on his head and the grandfather of Trusty’s infant daughter—if the assumption of her lineage was true—and put an end to the bounty once and for all. For now, he’d been warned off—forbidden by superiors—from taking care of things himself, his way. Once he confronted Marberry himself, it would be the only way he would ever know for sure if the baby born to Jessica Marberry, dead in childbirth, had been sired by him. But such an act would demand that he disobey orders or give up the badge. Neither of those things were something he wanted to do. Being a Deputy U.S. Marshal was the only life he knew, the only life he wanted.
* * *
In good weather the ride south to Fort Yates was a two-day journey. Luckily, the temperate day had held without turning into an unexpected blizzard like the natty Singer salesman in the livery had worried about. Not that it wasn’t cold beyond Bismarck, out in the open, as Trusty was. But the ride could have been a lot worse. Less than an inch of snow sat atop the ground, and the wind was mild, a soft push out of the southwest instead of a constant, angry rage out of the north. With the right gear and layers of coats, Trusty had been comfortable as he rode. Glad to be free of Bismarck and all of its confinements, though he was wary as a mouse ducking a hawk’s shadow every time he approached any kind of traffic on the trail.
Starting late as he did and considering the shortened length of the days in December, Trusty didn’t get as far as he hoped he would. Darkness forced him off the trail a few miles outside of a thick spot in the trail called Cannonball, which was nothing more than a trading post on the Standing Rock Reservation.
Luck had accompanied him so far on the trip, offering a thin grove of cottonwoods that reached up a slight ravine to protect his campsite from the wind. To make things even easier, he had spied a jackrabbit before the light faded away into the fullness of night, and a quick, accurate shot had allowed for a dinner of roasted meat instead of jerky and beans.
Trusty slept close to a pile of orange coals, dressed in his riding clothes and coats, hunkered down under a buffalo blanket. The night was clear with thousands of silver stars pulsing overhead. It wasn’t long before Trusty fell asleep, though with one ear open for the sound of trouble. The downfall of riding alone was the fear of sleeping too deep, but there had been no sign of riders on the trail for hours, so it had been easy enough to relax, which as it turned out was a mistake.
The snap of a twig and a snort and rustle from Horse roused Trusty from his slumber straight to his feet, his hand reaching for the ivory grips of his Colt as he stood, half-awake, half-unsure if he was dreaming a nightmare, or truly standing before a short man with a scattergun aimed straight at his belly. Trusty’s finger was on the trigger out of habit and preparedness.
“Well, well,” Carmichael, the shorter of the two sewing machine salesmen said, smiling with the glint of the moon bouncing off his teeth. “We meet again, Trusty Dawson. Only now I know who you are and what you’re worth. A thousand silvers can change a man’s life. Especially a man like me who has to travel hundreds of miles in hopes of making a sale, riding with idiots, and freezing my ass for pennies instead of dollars.”
There was no sign of his partner, Miles. Carmichael didn’t demand that Trusty drop his gun or raise his hands in surrender. He didn’t say anything else. The huckster just smiled wider and pulled the trigger of the scattergun. But he was too late. Trusty pulled his trigger first. The two explosions of gunfire joined together, rumbling across the frozen prairie like the thunder of a coming storm.
Look for THE BROKEN BOW in Winter 2022!
Photo credit: Rose M. Sweazy
About the Author
Larry D. Sweazy is the critically acclaimed, multiple-award-winning author of seventeen Western and mystery novels, and over eighty nonfiction articles and short stories. Larry lives in Indiana with his wife, Rose, where he is hard at work on his next novel. More information can be found at www.larrydsweazy.com.
Larry D. Sweazy, Lost Mountain Pass
