Blood at Bear Lake (12 page)

“Sorry t' bother you, ma'am, but I'm needing some help,” he said.

“No bother, I was just . . . tidying up in back.”

“Uh-huh,” Joe said. He tried not to, but the hint of a grin tugged at his lips. He had heard it called a lot of things, but “tidying up” was a first.

Joe coughed into his fist to give himself time to get rid of that grin, then said, “Two things I'm needin', ma'am. First is a stout drink. Second, I need t' buy me a horse. Mine was killed by Injuns just a little ways west from here and . . .”

“Indians!” the woman cried. “Oh, no.” She turned around and fled out the back door before Joe had time to say another word.

“Peterson,” the big man said, extending his work-hardened hand to Joe. “Aaron Peterson.”

Joe introduced himself and explained his problem.

Peterson fingered the salt-and-pepper gray beard that hung down onto his chest, then said, “You got them all?”

“That isn't what I said. I said I got all that I saw. One or two could've got away without me knowing.”

“They could bring more of their ugly kind,” Peterson said. He sighed. “We were on good terms with the Indians hereabouts,” he said. “Now this.”

“Could be these Injuns wasn't from around here,” Joe suggested. “Could be they was out raiding, lookin' for food. They was all scrawny. Their bellies was sunk in deep. Hell, I woulda give them food if they'd just asked. I been hungry myself a time or two.”

Peterson fingered his beard some more, obviously assessing the threat to his own settlement if there were more hostiles in the vicinity.

“Mr. Peterson, where could you an' me set down and have us a drink whilst we ponder on this? I could sure go for a glass o' whiskey now.”

“Oh, we have no hard spirits here, Mr. Moss. We are Mormon, you see. We don't drink liquor.”

Joe grinned. “I've knowed a lot o' Mormons, Mr. Peterson, and got drunk with some of 'em.”

“Not with any man here, you haven't. You won't either. We do not permit it.”

“No booze? All right then, how's about a beer?”

“No alcohol of any sort, Mr. Moss.”

“Good heavens, no alcohol at all? Whatever d'you boys do fer relaxation?” Then he remembered the rumpled, breathless woman here in the general store when he walked in. “Never mind,” he said. “I think I figured it out. If I can't get a drink, then can I buy a horse? Mine got shot back there.”

“We would have little to choose from if you intend to ride astride. Most of our stock are accustomed to harness, not saddle.”

“Reckon I can manage if the animal is any kind of tractable.”

“Out here . . . so far from the city . . . the cost might be quite steep, you know.”

“I ain't got much cash money,” Joe said. Then, considering, he added, “But I could offer some boot. I got me a fine Spencer repeating carbine that I could throw into the deal.”

The truth was that he was not all that pleased with the Spencer's performance. It did not load as quickly, nor carry as many cartridges, and—most important—did not hit as hard as his beloved Henry.

He was pretty sure he could pick up another Henry at Sol's store, and he could make do with his Colt revolver until then.

“Repeaters are rare, y'know,” Joe said. They were not so terribly rare anymore, especially the Spencers, but Peterson might not know that. “An' they're a comfort against Injuns. Look what mine did for me back there.”

“Mr. Moss, I think we can come to a meeting of the minds about this. Come along with me while we look over the horses that might be available.”

“Why'n't you carry this here Spencer while we do? Just in case we see some of them Diggers,” Joe said, handing the carbine to Peterson, that being one of the little tricks a trader soon learned if he wanted to prosper. Put your goods in the hands of the buyer; it helps to make him regard the item as being already his. Makes it that much harder for him to refuse the deal later on.

31

“THIS HORSE IS a piece o' walking shit. You know that, don't you?” Joe asked. And this time, it was no trick of the trade he was employing. The horse that was offered to him really was nothing but a self-propelled pile of bones.

“It is a fine animal, Mr. Moss. Besides, it is the only saddle horse we have.”

“Good Lord, Mr. Peterson. Put a saddle on that thing an' I figure the weight o' the saddle alone would be enough t' drive it to its knees. If I tried t' mount it, I might as well just take a gun and shoot it 'cause I'd kill it for certain sure.”

“Then I cannot help you.”

“Well, I need some kinda mount,” Joe said.

Peterson fingered his beard and mumbled a little to himself. He looked Joe up and down, then sighed. “Come over here.”

The Mormon leader led Joe out of that shed and across the street to another house. There was a stable behind it that held a monster of a horse, the biggest animal—well, the biggest horse anyway—that Joe had ever seen. It was a gleaming jet black everywhere except for a pure white blaze and four white stockings. It must have stood seventeen hands or close to it and weighed upward of a ton.

“They tell me the breed is called a Shire,” Peterson said. “It was abandoned by a family traveling to California. They thought this horse had a broken leg, but the problem was only a stone bruise. It still limps now and then, but the leg is sound. The man who left it here said it was broken to saddle. We've no use for anything that big.” Peterson rolled his eyes. “You would not believe how much this horse eats, and there just is not much grass around here to cut for feed.”

Joe looked at the horse. Its feet were huge. Shoes for it would have to be the size not of plates, but serving platters. Heavy feathering on the lower legs betrayed its dray horse breeding. But he liked the intelligence that showed in the big horse's eyes, and liked the proud way it carried its head.

“Mind if I give 'im a try before I decide anything?”

“Go right ahead.”

Joe led the big black around to the street and dropped the lead, figuring if the Shire tried to walk away, Peterson would be there to get it back under control. There was no need for that, however. The Shire stood ground-hitched while Joe went over to his mule and fetched his saddle and bridle.

“The horse is used to a snaffle, not that curb bit,” Peterson said. “I doubt your little bit would fit in that big mouth anyway.”

“You got a bigger snaffle?”

“Of course. Just a minute.” Peterson went into the store, and emerged a moment later carrying a brand-new snaffle bit. He quickly changed it for Joe's bit on the bridle.

The snaffle fit in the Shire's mouth without a problem, but Joe had to let his bridle out as far as the straps allowed in order to get it properly set on the black's big head.

He found the same problem when he tried to put his saddle in place. The cinch straps on both sides had to be repositioned before he could get the cinch around the Shire's barrel.

Joe looked the horse up and down, then grunted. “If I was half an inch shorter, I'd need a damn stepladder t' get onto him.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Moss. Ride him as long as you like. Then you can decide if you want him. But I have to be honest with you. The choice is either this big freak or the old horse across the way there.”

“That ain't a horse, Mr. Peterson, it's a sorrow waiting t' happen.”

“Then this would be all we have to offer.”

“I sure as hell hope he travels well under saddle then, Mr. Peterson.”

Joe stepped—climbed would be more accurate—onto the black's back and sat there with his legs spread wide by the sheer size of the Shire. After a moment, he made sure of the reins in his hand, then touched his heels to the black's sides.

32

THE SHIRE WAS not fast, but he was hell for stout. Over the next few days, Joe discovered that he simply could not wear the black out. The horse would travel all day and all night, too. It was even tougher than a mule. It had a trot that would rattle a man's teeth, but it could hold a fast walk for hours at a time if that was what was asked of it. By the time he reached the Mormon town of Salt Lake City, Joe had come to quite like the big Shire, even if it did attract a good bit of attention.

The only problem he had was not with the horse but with the saddle. His comfortable Mexican saddle was made to fit on a normal horse, not this huge mountain of horseflesh, and after a very few days of travel, Joe could see that the horse was developing sores despite the blankets Joe used to pad the saddle.

He stopped at a good saddlery in Salt Lake City, run by a man named Stevens, to take care of that before it might become a serious problem.

“I can do the work for you, mister. I'll have to build a new tree, but I can use the leather you already have here. I will just take your old saddle apart and rebuild it with the wider tree. Can you leave the horse and your saddle here for a couple days?”

“I'm in a hurry,” Joe said. “I got to meet up with my wife.”

“I understand that, but you won't travel too well if your horse is running blood from saddle sores.”

Joe hesitated only for a moment, then nodded. “You're right o' course, but please hurry as much as you can.”

“That I will do, sir.”

“You have a stable out back?” Joe asked

“We do, yes.”

“Then can I leave the mule with you, too? I'll pay for his keep o' course. For the Shire as well.”

“Of course.”

“And if I'm gonna be here for a while, can you tell me where I can find me a drink in this Mormon town?”

“Well, now, in theory the city is dry. The Church disapproves of liquor, and you are no longer in the United States, you know. The Church pretty much determines the law here in Deseret.”

“Yes, sir, I've been told that. I've also been told that a man can find a drink here if he wants one.”

Stevens paused for a moment, then lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Go down here two blocks and turn right. You will find a place called Wilson's Café. They serve something more than coffee there, and the Saints don't come around because they disapprove of coffee, too.”

“Thanks.” Joe started for the door, then turned back. “One more thing if you don't mind. D'you know a good gun shop around here?”

“Oh, my, yes. There is a very good man who sells guns. That would be back this other way. Just down to the corner and turn left. He has a sign outside. It reads: ‘Jonas Whitacker, Gunsmith.' You can't miss it.”

“You been a big help t' me, Mr. Stevens. Thanks.”

Joe was torn between what he wanted to do and what he really needed to do. And he really needed a long gun. The Spencer simply was not adequate. It did not hit nearly as hard as his old Henry had, and carried only half the number of cartridges.

He put off the pleasure of a glass of whiskey a little longer and headed for Whitacker's gun shop.

Jonas Whitacker proved to be a young man, fat and cheerful. He must have been a good gunsmith, though, because he had a good many firearms in racks waiting to be worked on, each with a tag tied to the trigger guard to indicate who the gun belonged to and what work needed to be done. Most were in for simple things like broken springs.

There was also a shorter rack that held new or nearly new rifles offered for sale. Joe smiled when he saw the familiar brass receiver and telltale lever of a .44-caliber Henry.

“Are you interested in that?” Whitacker asked when Joe picked up the Henry and looked it over. The rifle seemed to be in fine shape, although clearly it had been used.

“Yes, sir, I am. I'm partial to this here model. You got ammunition for it, too?”

“I do.”

“Fine. I'll take the rifle then.”

“You haven't asked how much I'm asking for it.”

“No, but I intend to have this gun. How much?”

“My price is high. Fifty dollars. Back East, that same rifle would cost you twenty dollars at the most.”

“We ain't back East, and I ain't quibbling. Not about this.” Joe smiled. “You aren't trying to talk yourself out of a sale here, are you?”

Whitacker laughed. “No. Just trying to be honest with you.”

“I like an honest man. An' I'll pay your price. Pay for a couple hundred cartridges, too, if you got them.”

“I have them. Two hundred rounds, you say?”

“Aw, make it three hundred. And one of those ramrods there so's I can clean inside the bore proper.”

Whitacker nodded. “Excuse me a minute while I get your ammunition. I won't be but a moment.”

Joe opened his pouch and plucked out enough gleaming gold coins to pay for his purchases. As soon as Whitacker returned with the boxes of cartridges, Joe opened one and filled the Henry's magazine.

“I don't think you will find anything to shoot in the city here, sir,” Whitacker said, obviously disapproving of the idea that anyone would be carrying a loaded rifle in town.

“Mr. Whitacker, I do hope you're right about that.” Joe paid the man, then gathered up his purchases and left.

He stopped at Stevens's saddlery long enough to stash his boxes of cartridges and new ramrod with his other things that Stevens was keeping for him.

Then, smiling broadly, he headed for Wilson's Café and that glass of whiskey he had been looking forward to for the past week or more.

33

“WELL, I'LL BE a son of a bitch!”

The hairy man in buckskins grinned and said, “Yeah, I heard that about you, Joe.”