Six from Greeley
A short story collection by
2nd Edition, Published by
Etta’s Gold
~*~
The Scout
~*~
The Partner
~*~
Sex and the Big Six
~*~
Oberon Pratt and the Paradise Posse
~*~
Greeley’s Finest
~*~
Resurrection Blues
All stories copyright 2011 by Josh Langston
Town cover and interior art
Copyright 2011 by Slava Gerj/Shutterstock.com
Cover photo
Copyright 2011 by Thrashem/Shutterstock.com
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
~*~
Welcome to Greeley, Texas
(Somewhere in time...)
Nearly everyone has an image of a wild west town locked in their heads. Maybe it came from the movies, or television, or one of the countless western yarns spun in books and magazines. Maybe it evolved from a tale heard around a campfire. That’s Greeley. So, in a sense, this should be a welcome home.
The stories in this collection take place at different moments during the 100-plus year history of this elusive desert village. Approximations of those dates are provided at the beginning of each tale.
Enjoy!
--Josh Langston
~*~
Etta's Gold
(Circa 1864)
Nate Trumbell absently tossed a hard, grey, cowhide-wrapped ball from one hand to the other as he sat alone at a table in the only two-story building in Greeley, Texas. Dubbed the “Spread Eagle,” the building housed a saloon on the ground floor and rooms above. Nate ordered a bourbon when he came in, and the barman seemed concerned that he’d only consumed half of it over the course of two hours.
“You gonna get anything else to drink, or just sit there and toss that danged ball all day?”
Nate pursed his lips as if the question deserved great thought, then shook his head. “Won’t need ‘nuther ‘til I finish this one.”
The barman swept his hand through the air and grabbed the ball. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a base ball,” Nate said, leaning back in his chair.
“What’s it for?”
Nate smiled. He’d suffered similar interrogations while traveling to Texas, an odyssey which began on a Civil War battlefield in Pennsylvania. “It’s used in a game called town ball. I-- I used to play.”
“Never heard of it,” the barman said. “I kin see why you quit.”
“I quit because some damn Yankee shot my leg off,” Nate said. After nearly three years, the memory remained fresh. And raw.
“No offense meant,” the barman added.
“None taken,” Nate said. “I’m gettin’ used to life with one leg. Not that I have much choice.”
The barman returned the ball. “You come to see Etta’s gold?”
Nate glanced at the stairway to the upper floor. “Professional ladies aren’t my style.”
“Naw,” the bartender said with a chuckle. “She’s no shake, and she sure don’t work upstairs. She’s got a place where the stage coaches used to stop for the night.” He leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “The stage line didn’t want their customers exposed to the folks around here. Reckon we weren’t dignified enough.”
“I don’t care how classy her parlor is--“
“She’s not in that line o’ work,” the bartender explained. “What Etta has to offer is more like a boardin’ house -- a good meal, and a nice room is all. But she’s got some kinda gold nugget that folks around here keep talking about.”
“Nope,” Nate said. “Still not interested.”
“Well, if you’re just lookin’ to find a game of-- What’d ya call it?”
“Town ball.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t believe anyone hereabout plays.”
“Nuthin’ to it,” Nate said. “Rules are simple. And maybe, once I’m done with the job I set for myself, there’ll be time to see about organizing a game.”
“Whatever you say. You sure I can’t git you something else to drink?”
“Later, maybe. Right now I’m tryin’ to find the man who stole my horse.”
The barman shook his head vigorously. “I ain’t the law, son. Truth is, nobody ‘round here much cares about legal niceties. Used to see a Ranger from time to time, but they got busted up when Texas quit the Union.”
“Don’t matter,” Nate said. “Haven’t had much luck with lawmen myself. Anyway, this is... personal.”
“You know the man?”
“By reputation.”
“Ain’t much to go on.”
“Oh, I’ve got his name, too,” Nate said. “You don’t steal a horse like he stole without turnin’ some heads along the way. Folks talk. I listen.”
The barman frowned, clearly puzzled.
Nate said, “My horse, Mystic, was sired by Lexington.”
“And, that’s good?”
“Lexington is the fastest horse that ever raced. He holds the record for a 4-mile track. He’s blind now, doesn’t race anymore. But, see, here’s the thing -- Mystik’s faster.”
The bartender backed away, laughing. “I know as much about horse racing as I do about town ball.”
~*~
Jed Hooper heard about Etta's gold from Bessie Brown, a horizontal entrepreneur in the frontier town of Greeley. Having exhausted his funds on cheap whiskey and expensive cards, Jed nursed a brain-cleaving hangover and contemplated his exit from Bessie's boudoir above the Spread Eagle. The room had but one window, which overlooked the town's only street, and a door in front of which lounged the unpaid lady.
“I know what yer thinkin',” Bessie said.
Jed squinted at her. The sun seemed unusually bright, as if heaven wanted in. Bessie, on the other hand, looked a great deal less angelic than she had the previous evening.
“Yer plannin' to sneak outta here without payin' me.” She swept a Colt Army revolver from behind her back. The bore of the .45 looked big enough to swallow him, but he refused to be rattled. He'd faced guns before. Most recently at Gettysburg.
“That's my gun.”
“Not if you don't pay me what I'm due.” She pulled the hammer back. The resulting clicks seemed unnaturally loud.
“You'd shoot a fella over a couple dollars?”
She smiled. “And not give it a second thought.”
The woman's armed and unwavering stance reminded Jed of the rebels he'd faced during his abbreviated career in the Union army. What had begun as a glorious mission to put down an insurrection had gone horribly wrong, and instead of marching to victory, his unit fled for their lives. Jed had helped himself to the horse and baggage of a rebel dispatch rider who'd taken a Minie’ ball. With a mount and provisions, Jed headed west and didn't stop until he neared the New Mexico Territory. Almost three years later, he was still there.
“Just lemme get my trousers. I've got some money in there somewhere.”
“No, you don't,” Bessie said. “I already looked.”
“In my saddle bag, then. It's gotta be--”
“Yer stone broke, Ned.”
“It's Jed.”
She frowned. “The initials on yer watch and razor are 'NT.' What's the 'T' stand for?”
“Hell if I know,” he said. “I won 'em at poker.”
She laughed. “That's rich. I saw you play. Whoever lost to you must've been blind and stupid.” She paused for a moment. “Or dead. Aw, hell.
Did you rob a dead man?”
Jed groaned as he rolled off the mattress, his head aching as if he'd used it to pound nails. “I didn't kill nobody.” He stood and looked for his pants. “How ‘bout you keep my comb and we call it even?”
“I’ve got a comb.”
“Well, then. How ‘bout--“
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t care if you steal from the dead. I don’t care if you did the killin’. I ain't lookin' for a killer anyhow. What I need is a thief. If you’ve got some backbone, you might be my huckleberry. You kin work off what ya owe me.”
“I'll get yer damned money,” he said, bristling. “It jus' might take a while.”
“And you jus' might take off and never come back. Wouldn't be the first time.”
Jed rocked from one foot to the other. “Seems ya got me up a tree. Can we square this after I find the necessary?”
“Fair 'nuff,” she said, stepping away from the door. “It's out back.”
When he bent to get his pants she waved the gun in his face. “They'll be here when you git back. We kin talk about what I need done over breakfast.”
~*~
Nate thought he saw his man, Jed Hooper, crossing the street with one of the doxies from the Spread Eagle. He watched from his spot in the town’s only cafe while he updated the journal he’d been keeping since his hunt for the horse thief began.
The couple entered then ordered coffee and a platter of biscuits which Jed tore into while the woman talked. The place seemed crowded despite the late hour. The woman, whom Jed called Bessie, stole a glance at Nate before scanning the rest of the patrons. Most every male in Greeley looked thin, bearded and broke, just like Nate. He settled in to listen, confident she wouldn’t give him another thought.
Bessie told Jed the story of Etta Munger and her legendary gold nugget. Jed listened intently. Nate worked hard to stifle his smile when Jed realized Bessie had a gun snuggled up against his crotch.
According to Bessie, Etta lived in what amounted to a hotel several miles from town. Buford Munger, Etta's husband, built the place with money provided by the Dupree Overland Express Company, a stage line. Since Buford disdained town life, and the stage line needed a safe alternative to Greeley where their passengers could dine and rest, the arrangement worked well. Munger's Station prospered, but not because of Mr. Munger. Once it opened, he went in search of gold, scouring the ridge framing the endless plains surrounding their little piece of paradise. Etta ran the station.
A few years later, Buford died, and two months after that, owing mostly to Mr. Lincoln's war, the stage line went broke. Despite these setbacks, Etta survived reasonably well. She got the station, the land around it, and the only gold nugget Buford ever found.
Roughly the size of the late Mr. Munger's ponderous nose, and shaped like an armadillo, the lump of congealed yellow metal sat on a shelf in the curio cabinet opposite the sideboard in Etta's dining room. Once discovered, the nugget became a popular topic of conversation, and not just for station patrons. Bessie, obviously, had given it a great deal of thought.
In her opinion, the demise of the Dupree Line had no effect on the allure of the legendary nugget. It drew visitors from all over. Though folks typically arrived on horseback, the occasional wagon train would alter course so well-heeled settlers could get a peek at “the rock” and take advantage of Etta's modestly priced hospitality.
Bessie, evidently, had more in mind than just looking at it. She needed someone to see to it that once she grabbed it, nobody else could take it from her until she cashed it in.
“Who's guardin' it?” he asked.
“Nobody, far as I kin tell.”
“That's amazin'--”
“Stupid is more like it,” Bessie said.
“--amazin' that it's still there.”
Bessie smiled. “Well, yeah, but not for much longer.”
The tart and the trail hand struck a deal and shook on it. If they hustled, they could reach Munger Station well before dark. And so, thought Nate, could he.
~*~
Etta fed Plato the same things she served herself, and her guests. He ate in the dining room, too. His dish, however, sat on the floor.
Nothing about the dog, except possibly his name, struck anyone as special. A mix of several breeds (with a possible sprinkling of non-canine species tossed in for good measure), Plato held a position of authority in Etta's domain. Though he wore no outward sign of his status, those who stayed with Etta for any length of time knew she considered Plato more than simply a dog.
Though he entered the Munger's world as just another stray, Plato's role evolved into one of importance. Named in honor of the ancient Greek observer of man and nature, the dog's primary job was to keep track of the nugget. This he managed with relative ease. Having grown up in the prospector's shadow, Plato developed an intense loyalty to the man. Indeed, no one -- including Etta -- grieved for Buford more.
Without his dear companion, Plato pined for anything which bore even a hint of Buford's scent. And, since the man rarely let go of the nugget once he'd found it, the gold carried a whiff of its late owner that even some humans claimed they could detect. Hence, Plato would sprawl on the floor in front of the curio for hours, gazing up at it. That Buford never put in an appearance didn't seem to matter.
With the passing of the stage line, Etta could no longer schedule guests. They came and went according to their own timetable. She adopted the rule that anyone who showed up before three in the afternoon would be provided for at dinner. Later arrivals were still welcome to spend the night, but they'd go to bed hungry unless they brought their own provisions.
Bessie and Jed arrived without fanfare. She drove a rented buggy; he sat atop a huge bay mare. Once she’d gotten over the magnificence of the horse, Etta's next thought was that the saddle didn't match the rider. The former had obvious value despite considerable wear and would undoubtedly clean up well. She gave Bessie a short eye then directed them to the stable where they could turn their horses over to the ranch hand.
“Once you've seen to your animals, join me in the house. I'm expectin' a crowd this evening, but we've got plenty of beds. Hope you like chicken n' dumplin's.”
Jed tipped his hat and led the horses to the barn. When he returned, he found Bessie and Etta sitting on the porch. Etta looked at him and shook her head. “I believe you've brought as much of the trail in with you as you left outside. I don't do laundry, but a hot bath would only set you back a dime.”
Jed appeared pained. “Sounds wonderful,” he said, “but my wallet’s a bit light.”
Etta pursed her lips and pondered his condition. “If you're willin' to do a little work, I could overlook the cost of your meal.”
“What kinda work?”
“Diggin',” she said.
“Diggin' what, exactly?”
“The hole for my new outhouse. Doesn't need to be real wide, but it's gotta be plenty deep.”
“I dunno....”
“Chicken n’ dumplin’s. And gravy.” She stretched out each syllable.
Jed rubbed his jaw. “That's a heap o' diggin'.”
“And a bath. I'll throw that in, too. Lord knows, you need one.”
Bessie dug an elbow into Jed's ribs.
“Sounds fair,” he said.
Etta chuckled, then added in a conspiratorial tone, “My husband prospected all around these parts, but the only time he found anything was when he dug the hole for our first outhouse. We're on our fifth or sixth now, and it's nearly full.”
On hearing this historical tidbit, Jed's attitude improved. Etta gave him a shovel and aimed him in the right direction. “I'll come get you in time for you to wash up before we eat.” She paused, then added, “Dig hard, and I'll throw in one of Buford's shirts. Won't look like much, but it'll be clean.”
“Much obliged,” Jed said, marching down the well-worn path to the necessary.
~*~
The “crowd” Etta expected numbered seven, including he
rself, Bessie and Jed. Of the others, one worked for Etta. Two of the remaining three guests -- Irishmen by way of Ohio -- chatted amiably as they ate. The final diner, a thin, bearded man with a wooden leg, said little and ate less. Even when the conversation turned to Etta's famed gold nugget, the man said nothing though thoughts of any other topic seemed to have disappeared for everyone else.
“You ever bring it down off that shelf?” Jed asked. Every eye of every diner focused on the gaudy stone.
“There's not much to look at,” Etta said. “Sideways it looks sorta like an armadillo. Ugly, really.”
Bessie leaned toward her hostess. “Kin I hold it?”
Etta glanced at the dog stretched out in front of the curio. “That's probably not a good idea. Plato gets upset whenever anyone goes near it. We'd best leave it where it is.” She stood and began clearing plates from the table. “I'd planned to bake something for dessert, but I need to save the flour for tomorrow mornin's hotcakes.”
The diners stood in a chorus of scraping chairs.
“One last thing,” Etta said. “In case somebody wants to get an early start tomorrow, you'll need to wake me up so I can unlock the stable. There've been reports of horse thieves in the area, and I wouldn't want to take any chances with your stock. That’s the price we pay for livin’ so close to Greeley.” She smiled benevolently. “So, I'll see you at breakfast.”
Everyone but Etta retired to the parlor and listened to the two Irishmen argue the finer points of potato farming. The man with the wooden leg thumped out to the porch for a smoke. Soon, they all turned in for the night.
Jed waited in his room until he felt sure the other guests were asleep, then he crept down the hall to Bessie’s room and rapped lightly on the door. She welcomed him in.
“That damned dog worries me,” he said when they were safely alone.
Bessie waved off his objection. “There’s nothin' to fear.”
“Why not?”
“'Cause I poured half a bottle of whiskey in his food, and he licked up every drop. He'll sleep like a corpse.”
“And how'll I get to the horses with the barn sealed six ways from Sunday?”
Bessie's grin lit up the dark room. “There ain't a lock on Earth I can't open with a hair pin and a little bit of time.” She patted his arm. “You jes' grab the nugget and meet me on the porch 'round midnight.”