“How'm I gonna know when it's midnight?” he asked. “You gonna gimme back my watch?”
“You mean NT's watch, don't ya?”
“Whatever.”
She handed him the shiny timepiece. “That's a fancy for sure. It's got the same engravin' as on the razor, the comb, and a tobacco tin. Ol' NT musta been rich.”
Jed bristled. “Find anything else of mine you like?”
“You're the one owes me,” she said. “How you settle yer debts is up to you.”
“You got quite a mouth for a trollop.”
She smiled sweetly, and when she did, she looked remarkably like Etta. “I prefer 'soiled dove.' Not that it matters. The world ain't always a pretty place for a pretty face.”
“Midnight then,” Jed said, checking the watch. He slipped his arm around her bare shoulders and gave her a hug. “I know a great way to pass the time while we're waitin'.”
“You do?” She slid her hand down his shirt front and beyond his belt buckle. “Oh, my. What have we here? I believe I've located another gold nugget, only much, much bigger. How's about I trade ya for the tobacco tin?”
Jed pulled away. “That thing's solid silver!”
She shrugged and showed him the door. “Lemme know if it keeps ya warm at night.”
Jed stood alone in the hall for several long moments before he entered his room and went to bed.
~*~
Midnight came and went with no sign of Bessie. Jed sat on the front porch stoop and waited for what seemed an eternity, but she didn't show.
Earlier, when he passed through the dining room and took the gold nugget, the dog didn’t move. Concerned that Bessie might have killed him, Jed gave the animal a tentative poke. Plato exhaled a lip blubbering response, then fell back asleep. It became the only thing Jed found worth smiling about.
To his surprise, the nugget weighed more than anticipated, but he shrugged off the difference to his excitement, which faded rapidly as his wait in the darkness grew. What was Bessie up to? He had no idea how to pick a lock. How would he get to his horse? What if the barn caught fire? That last thought didn't sit well at all. Nobody burned down a barn. Leastwise, not with stock in it.
Finally, Jed stood and stretched. He hefted the gold crusted stone in his palm, sighed, and went back inside. The dog hadn't moved and didn't react when Jed reached over him to put Etta's gold back where he'd found it.
"Thanks for nothin'," he muttered to the missing harlot while taking a last look at the dining room, the gold, and the slumbering guard dog.
~*~
Neither of the Irishmen joined the company for breakfast. Etta explained they'd left around dawn. She had gone with them while they saddled their mounts, thanked her for her hospitality, and headed further west.
Jed helped himself to hotcakes and coffee, then let his gaze drift toward the curio, fully expecting to see the nugget where he'd left it.
But it wasn't there.
Stranger still, no one else seemed to have noticed. Bessie hadn't said two words to him since she sidled into the dining room, yawning and stretching, her hair mussed as if she'd spent the night working.
Etta appeared as prim and proper as usual. Her ranch hand, she explained, had gone to town for supplies, which left only the one-legged man. Had Bessie spent the night with him, or the hired help? Not that it mattered. Jed's plans, loosely formed as they were, had evaporated the night before. He reached down to pet the dog sitting beside him. He couldn't help but notice the animal's soulful eyes.
"Care for some of my special syrup on those hotcakes?" Etta asked.
"No, thank you," Jed said. "I'll stick with butter."
"Don't be silly!" Etta bustled around the table with a tiny porcelain pitcher in hand. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I don't offer this to just anyone."
Her breath on his neck had the same effect as Bessie's hand on his thigh, and it took all his concentration not to let it show. "I wouldn't want to be disrespectful," he said, gesturing toward his plate. "Pour it on."
Etta did. The dark brown syrup flowed slowly from the little pot. It pooled briefly in the center of his hotcakes, then swept over the edges and puddled on his plate.
Jed had never tasted anything so sweet. Though he tried to rein in his hunger, the hotcakes and coffee went down fast and smooth. He sat back in his chair with a contented burp, for which he apologized. "I'm just not used to grub this good." He patted his stomach, only mildly surprised to feel a sudden build-up of gas.
The others continued to eat, but Etta didn't offer her syrup to them. Instead, she carried the little porcelain jug back out to the kitchen.
"I've got a busy day ahead," she announced when everyone had finished eating. "So, if you don't mind, I'd like to settle accounts." She addressed Bessie and the one-legged man. "That'll be fifty cents from each of you." Then she nodded at Jed. “You owe me a quarter.”
Bessie and the peg-leg surrendered the requisite coins. When Jed came up empty handed, Etta frowned.
"I uh-- Maybe we can work something out,” he said. “I’m a little short--"
Suddenly his gut twisted as violently as if he'd been run over by a freight wagon.
"You all right?" Etta asked.
Jed put both hands on his stomach. "No, ma'am, I don't believe so." He stumbled through the building and then staggered toward the outhouse.
~*~
Bessie dabbed her lips with a hankie she pulled from the bodice of her dress. "Won't be long now."
Etta scowled and cut her eyes toward the kitchen. The man with one leg ignored them, sipped his coffee, and updated the open journal beside his plate. He used a silver pen which he dipped in a tiny bottle of black ink.
"What?" Bessie asked, but received only another silent admonition.
When Etta left the room, Bessie followed her. Neither realized the one-legged man followed too, at a discreet distance. Though awkward, Nate moved in silence. He stopped at the kitchen's entrance, leaned out of sight against the wall, and eavesdropped.
"You can't go runnin' off at the mouth when we've still got company," Etta said, her voice a harsh whisper.
"Well, pardon me fer livin'," Bessie said. "Just 'cause I wasn't born quite as smart as you don't make you the boss. Like Ma said, I'll just have to settle for bein' prettier."
Etta's retort amounted to the slamming of kitchen utensils. "I need water to clean the dishes, Bess. Bucket's by the door."
"Git it yerself," Bessie said.
"I was up early fixin' breakfast. What's wrong with you? Tired from workin' all night?"
Bessie growled. "I didn't--"
"I run a respectable place," Etta said. "I'm crazy to let a tramp like you hang around."
"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have this place. Besides, we made a deal."
"Some deal," Etta muttered. "I get to take care of this hell hole while you live the life of leisure in a fancy hotel."
"Oh, yeah, it’s fancy all right -- cheap booze downstairs, cheap sex upstairs. Nothin' says ‘leisure’ like screwin' trail bums."
"I wouldn't know."
"Leastwise, when a gent leaves my place, he's smilin'."
"I s'pose that's somethin' to be proud of."
"When they crawl outta here, they're dyin'. They just don't know it."
"Damn it, Bess -- keep your voice down!"
"D’you lose any sleep over the men you've poisoned?" Bessie asked, more taunt than question.
Nate figured he'd heard enough and worked his way through the parlor to the outdoors. Though sorely inconvenienced by the loss of his leg, he'd grown accustomed to walking on his wooden appendage. He limped down the well-worn path and around the house to the privy.
The span of two shovel handles separated the outhouse from the hole Jed had worked on, and from the smell, Nate knew it wouldn't be long before the little shack got moved again.
Jed sprawled inside with his swollen tongue protruding from his open mouth. Flies had already come to
investigate the freshly dead thief. Working past the stench emanating from below, Nate relieved the corpse of both gun and gun belt. He didn't bother with anything else. When he exited the little building, Bessie and Etta stood outside waiting for him. Etta cradled a shotgun in the crook of her arm with both barrels pointed at his midsection.
"Mornin' ladies," he said.
Neither woman smiled. Bessie nodded at the rig on his shoulder. "That's my hog leg and holster you've got there."
"Oh? That's odd, 'cause the Colt's got my initials engraved in it, and this holster appears to have been made for it."
"Who are you?" Etta asked. "And where's my damn gold? Did you take it off that lowlife in the shitter?"
"Is that who took it?"
Etta snickered. "Why else would I have killed him?"
"I dunno. Maybe to steal his horse?" He paused to strap the gun belt around his waist. "I couldn't help but notice that despite all the livestock you've got, no two horses have the same brand."
Etta cocked both hammers and gave Bessie a little shove. "Go. See if my nugget's on the stiff."
As Bessie pinched her nostrils and entered the outhouse, Etta's guest shifted his weight to his real leg. "What made you suspect Jed?" he asked.
"If somebody's stupid enough to take the rock, Plato will just sit close to 'em and stare. I knew who took it even before I looked to see if it was gone."
"Smart dog. Or maybe he was attracted by the scent of your husband’s shirt. Jed hadn’t worn it very long. Dogs can be funny that way."
"What’s Jed got to do with you? How d'you even know his name?"
"I've been chasin' that sumbitch for three years. He stole my horse and everything I had with me."
Bessie emerged from the shed and exhaled, forcefully. When once again composed, she addressed Nate. "Yer initials are NT?"
"Yes’m. I’m Nate Trumbull, the third." He bowed his head. "The fancy stuff belonged to my grandfather. He knew a silversmith up in Boston, and had it all made special. It's been in the family for years, so I couldn't just let some Yankee deserter run off with it."
"That's a real tear squeezer," Bessie said. "'Specially since you won’t be keepin’ any of it. Yer gonna end up right next to Jed in the hole under the outhouse."
“That explains how they got filled up so fast,” he said. “Pretty clever.”
Bessie looked at Etta. "Jed didn't have the gold."
Etta raised the shotgun even with Trumbull’s chest.
"Well, I don't have it either," he said. "I saw it earlier, right where it belonged. It was about the time you took those Irish spud wranglers out to the barn. Any fool could see their horses weren't worth stealin', and since the gold was still in the house, you didn't even bother to take your scattergun."
Etta jabbed the weapon at him. "You're lyin'!"
"I remember it distinctly, 'cause that's when I unloaded it."
She pulled a trigger which merely clicked. She did the same with the second trigger and got the same result.
"Not a trustin' soul, I see," Nate said, drawing his Colt and holding it by his side.
Bessie sneered at him. "Now, I suppose yer gonna try and take advantage of us. Well, I wouldn’t if I was you. There’s plenty of fight left in both of us."
"Actually,” he said, “I'm just gonna saddle up the big bay Jed rode in on, and take my leave. Her name’s Mystic, by the way. I raised her from a foal."
Etta glowered at him. "You’re leavin’, just like that? With my gold?"
"I'll let you discuss that with Plato," he said, pointing briefly with the handgun.
The dog had taken up a position slightly behind and to one side of Bessie. He sat at full alert, staring straight at her.
~End~
The Scout
(Circa 1876)
Landon Albright couldn’t take any more. He’d managed the Greeley Monarchs since shortly after General Grant became President, and no player had ever given him more headaches. He leveled his gravel textured voice at the huge young baseballer. “I’ve had it with you, Dunnegan. Yer done. Grab yer gear and git!”
The rest of the Greeley Monarchs sat quietly on the home bench in Trumbell Field, trying to look as if they were somewhere else.
Having been in trouble so many times before, Dunnegan didn’t appear concerned. “Listen, Coach, I--“
“Leave the bat. You may be the only one around here big enough to swing the damn thing, but it belongs to the team, not you.”
“I kin explain.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. Must’ve been a half dozen gamblers in town who made out nicely on account of you. Just ‘cuz Greeley has a bad reputation doesn’t mean we all cheat.”
“But--“
“D’ya see anybody else on that bench who’d sell out his own team? Not one of ‘em would even think of flubbin’ a catch on purpose. But you? Hell, you’d sell out your mother if the price was right.”
The big ballplayer bristled. “I’m the best hitter you got.”
“You’re the best hitter I had,” Albright said. “As of now, you ain’t shit.”
“How ‘bout all them runs I got against Oneida? Or last week, over in Beaker Flats?”
“None of that matters anymore. Yer nuthin’ but trouble, Red, and I’ve got all o’ that I need.” Albright crossed his arms and waited for the muscle-bound redhead to leave the dusty field.
“Yer makin’ a mistake, Coach,” Dunnegan said. “I--“
“Git outta here, son, before somebody takes a notion to soften yer brain with lead.”
~*~
Red Dunnegan sat at the bar in the Spread Eagle, one of the older drinking establishments in Greeley. An empty beer mug rested on the scared pine surface in front of him. He stared at it with glassy eyes for a moment before pushing it toward the barman. “’Nuther,” he said.
“Sure thing, kid. Soon as you pay for the last three.”
Dunnegan tried to fix his eyes on the man, but the room’s constant motion made it difficult. “Dint I pay you awready?”
“For the first three, yeah,” the barman said. “I just don’t want you to get too far ahead of yourself.”
“What’s the matter, honey?” asked a heavily made up hooker as she sidled alongside the tipsy ballplayer.
“Nuthin’,” he said, then belched.
She fanned the air in front of her face. “Charming.”
“Sorry, Rosie. I jus’ need-- need to sign with ‘nuther team.”
“I thought you were the Monarch’s main attraction.” She traced the bulging muscles in his upper arm with her index finger.
“Gotta move on,” he said. “I kin do better.”
“I bet Beaker Flats would kill to sign you up.”
He shook his head. “Albright told ‘em I cheat. They won’t even talk to me now.”
“You cheat? So what? Doesn’t everybody?”
Dunnegan wagged a ponderous finger. “Not at baseball.”
“You gonna pay me?” the barman asked.
Dunnegan stood, searched his pockets, and came up empty. “I’m good for it, ain’t I?”
The barman reached under the counter and produced a sawed off shotgun. “I don’t know what you’re good for. Throwin’ ball games is ‘bout all, I ‘spect.”
Dunnegan slowly lowered himself back down on his bar stool.
“Here now,” said a man dressed in tweeds and a bowler hat. “Can’t you see the lad’s in a bit of distress?” He dumped a handful of change on the bar to settle the debt.
“Who’re you?” Rosie asked.
“Name’s Walter Feeney, and I’ve been looking for this young fella for quite some time.”
Dunnegan managed to get both eyes focused on the newcomer. “Me?”
Feeney patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, indeed. We have a lot to talk about.”
The hooker hovered protectively. “He ain’t in any condition to--“
“What’re you, his mother?”
She glared at him.
&n
bsp; Feeney shrugged. “Well, you’re old enough.”
Rosie glanced briefly at the barman’s shotgun then appeared to change her mind. “What d’you want?” she asked.
“I want to talk to Mr. Dunnegan here.” He helped the younger man to his feet. “In private.”
She brushed up against him. “That’s not really a good idea.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause he listens to me, that’s why. Red and me, we got a-- a special relationship.”
“Well then,” Feeney said, “I guess you both need to come along with me.”
~*~
Days later, Walter Feeney relaxed on the train, only too happy to be returning to New York. His trip had been more successful than he’d hoped. Not only had he cornered the big, redheaded hitter from the Texas hinterlands, he’d gotten him away from the backwater gamblers who almost ruined his value for everyone.
The woman seated next to him smiled as she took a long pull from his flask. “You’re lookin’ pretty smug,” she said.
“And with good reason.” Feeney beamed. “Not only will I enjoy your company all the way back home, I’ve got something to show for my efforts.”
Rosie gave him a dubious look. “That’s my kid yer talkin’ about. I’ve known him forever. Much as I’d like to tell you he’s innocent, he ain’t.”
Feeney smiled. Could life get any better?
“The Monarchs dumped him for throwin’ a game,” she said, ”but just between you and me, it sure as Hell wasn’t his first.”
“Is that right?”
“I just don’t understand why you had to send him to the Montana Territory, of all places.”
“You said he could ride, didn’t you?” Feeney asked.
“Well of course. He practically grew up on horseback.”
“And he can shoot?”
She looked annoyed. “Hell yes he can shoot. Who can’t?”
“Then he’ll do fine in the cavalry, as long as he follows orders. And,” Feeney added, “I have it on the best authority, the orders won’t be too difficult.”
“But, why Montana? Why not somewhere in Texas? We’ve got Indians to fight, too.”
“True, but I only have connections with one fort, and it’s in Montana,” Feeney said. “There are limits to what a man can do.”
“I still don’t understand why he has to go there at all.”