Colorado Sam (11 page)

   The fanged beast and smoking pistols failed to appear and Nathan slept soundly through the night. He was vaguely aware of Mr. Ming stoking the stove to warm the room against morning cold, and the clicking of toenails and squeak of door hinges as the slim Chinaman took Sam for his daily walk. Mere minutes later, the aroma of piping hot coffee, fresh bread, and cooked bacon teased Nathan's nose.  

   He came fully awake and sat up to find the day well into morning and his clothes draped over Constable Allred's chair. Mr. Ming set his wooden tray on Nathan's lap and announced: “Lady doctor come at noon, Mrs. Tanner in afternoon. Much waits to be done.”

   Nathan devoured his breakfast, partaking of three cups of Arbuckle's and keeping a fourth at hand while the insistent Mr. Ming shaved him. The servant wiped his razor and informed Nathan the doctor had requested the large bandage be removed from his head prior to her next visit. Ming's touch was so gentle the bandage seemed to remove itself. 

   Nathan didn't realize how much he'd overslept until Mr. Ming hastily piled shaving gear and the discarded bandage on his wooden tray. “Doctor here any second. We dress afterwards.” How Ming judged the exact time without the help of a wall clock or a watch mystified Nathan, but he and Dr. Ellie Langston nearly came together in the doorway.

   Dropping her black satchel on the bottom of the bed, the lady doctor peered down her knife-blade nose. “Many truly sick persons await me, Mr. Tanner, and I'm not partial to bullshit or outright lies. Have you been up and around yet?”

   Not desiring to nail himself to Ellie Langston's cross of his own accord, Nathan said: “Yes, ma'am, yesterday.” 

   “How far did you walk?”

   “To the window and back.”

   “Just once?”

   “No, three times.” 

   “Any dizziness?” 

   “No.”

   “How much pain are you experiencing?”

   “Hardly any as long as I stay away from the knot on my skull.”

   “That's as it should be,” the lady doctor judged, pulling scissors, salve can, and rolled bandage from her satchel. She circled the bed, leaned, and with a slight tug freed the small white square covering the cut in Nathan's scalp. 

   “Clean, except for a smidgen of clotted blood,” she pronounced. “Mr. Tanner, the healing power of youth constantly fascinates me. Cherish it while you can. We'll forego any new bandages. A little salve should do the trick quite nicely.“

   Doc Ellie applied the salve with light strokes. “Don't scratch, Mr. Tanner. And try not to tear the scab with your hat.”

   Treatment finished, Ellie Langston repacked her black satchel. “Mr. Tanner, you really should stay in bed the rest of the week. But I'm told Alana Birdsong has other plans for you. Just be careful of so much as bumping your temple. I don't need patients that see me so often they feel they should call me by my first name.” 

   With that parting admonition, the female scarecrow flew from the room. Mr. Ming popped into sight, bearing Nathan's shell belt and leather purse. “Master must dress. Mrs. Tanner always early.”

   Nathan shed his nightshirt and slowly wriggled into Uncle Seth's white long johns with the pearl buttons. Next came cotton socks, and to Nathan's surprise, Levi's that fit him properly. “Mr. Thomas, he say boil twice. I do,” Mr. Ming explained with great pride.

   Donning shield shirt and leather vest was no challenge, but Nathan's new boots required much tugging and the assistance of Mr. Ming to slide his heels home. He buckled on the shell belt and dug his pistol from beneath the pillow. The leather purse with its double eagles he entrusted to Mr. Ming. Overcome with astonishment, the delighted servant smiled and bowed with each step as he took his leave.

   Once he was alone Nathan hitched the holstered six-gun higher on his hip, trying to find the best position in which to carry it. After sliding the weapon left, right, up, and down, he quit in disgust. There was nothing comfortable about toting the heavy shell belt and Colt. And why was he arming himself anyway? He doubted he could draw a gun fast enough to defend himself.   

   For the sheer fun of it, he swept his hand to his hip and whipped the Colt from its cross draw holster. His fingers slipped from the butt, and despite a desperate attempt to catch it in the air, the six-gun clattered to the floor, startling the sleeping Sam. Luckily, he hadn't cocked the pistol while drawing it, and the weapon slid harmlessly into the corner behind the wood stove. 

   Thankful only Sam has seen his goof, he retrieved the six-gun, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and settled into a slight crouch. This time he made sure of his grip on the Colt before pulling it from the holster. He cocked the hammer as the six-gun came level with his chin, clasping his right wrist with his left hand at the same time to steady his aim. 

   The draw wasn't a thing of beauty. Neither was it fast. But Ira Westfall had harped constantly how it was the undisciplined shooter that died the quickest. “It takes just one well-aimed bullet to kill the most dangerous of men. The catch is to keep your wits about you and not hurry too much. Wild shots spare no lives.” 

Nathan didn't hear the door of the room open and almost fired a round into the wall when Alana Birdsong said, ”Don't shoot me, Nephew.”  

   Nathan eased the hammer from full cock, holstered the Colt, and turned to face his aunt. He fished for a way to explain why he'd been standing in the middle of the room with a fully cocked revolver aimed in the general direction of the stove and failed. His concern was unwarranted. 

   Acting as if such carrying on was an everyday occurrence, Alana Birdsong nestled her rifle in the crook of her arm and patted Sam's neck. ”Nephew, it's time Alamosa met the young man everybody's talking about. We play our cards right, it shouldn't be difficult to convince Roan Buckman's spies you're headed home to the ST to complete your recovery. Shall we go?”

   Nathan avoided frowning. He'd no clue as to what she was planning other than her assertion she would get them on the train to Creede without their being seen by Roan Buckman's spies. He supposed she would make him privy to her thinking whenever she deemed it necessary. Even if she didn't, she obviously expected him to follow her lead.

   Wherever they were bound, Alana Birdsong was dressed for travel, be it by train or horseback. A cream-colored Stetson had replaced her parasol, and in lieu of yesterday's Bolero walking suit, she wore a thigh-length, fringed leather jacket over her familiar silk shirtwaist and corduroy pants, along with calfskin boots. 

   At her simple command—“Come, Sam,”—the huge dog bounded after his mistress and came within a whisker of bowling over Mr. Ming, who was in the process of fetching Nathan's hat. Nathan grabbed the Stetson from the servant's outstretched hand, nodded his thanks, and hurried down the hallway in the wake of his aunt and Sam. 

   The desk clerk stared as if Nathan sported two heads as he passed through the shabbily furnished lobby of the Imperial House. Alana Birdsong and Sam awaited him on the hotel's front porch. 

   Nathan looked about and saw no sign of Brick Redman or Burt Dawes. “I sent Brick home to work the fall roundup with Heft and the crew. Your Mr. Dawes will join us for dinner. We have a few calls to make,” his aunt said with a wink. “And trust me, Nephew, I've a knack for spreading rumors.” 

   The chill October air called for Nathan's Egyptian long johns and leather vest. The blue sky ran forever in all directions, and the Colorado sunshine was blinding. Horse backers, buggies, light freight wagons, and pedestrians plied Alamosa's wide, dusty, manure-strewn Hunt Street. Nathan found the hubbub subdued compared to the St. Louis riverfront where a mass of human flesh and draft animals and groaning wheels overran every square inch of space from dawn to late evening. And, interestingly, the absence of the ear-pounding din of the St. Louis riverfront allowed Alamosa citizens to exchange greetings from one sidewalk to the other. 

   The Imperial House was located on Hunt Street a half block above Payne Merchandise. Alana Birdsong walked north to the intersection of Hunt and Fifth. Sam took station on the outer edge of the sidewalk at her left hip and matched her stride for stride. The huge dog ignored two women who nodded and passed Alana Birdsong on the right. His warning growl sent three different males scurrying from the sidewalk. 

   At Fifth Street, they turned east and Buckman Brothers Groceries and Drugs loomed across the way. The sign on the face of the building's second story was as imposing as that of Payne Merchandise. Placards advertising sale items from foodstuffs and meats to elixirs and throat tonics plastered glass windows four times the length of any other store on the block. There was little doubt that, in Alamosa, the Buckmans were to groceries and drugs what Payne Merchandise was to wheeled vehicles and mechanical equipment.

   A pencil-thin, apron-clad figure sweeping the Buckman porch spied the three of them and tore inside. If Alana Birdsong saw the sweeper, it was from the corner of her eye for her head didn't turn. The less restrained Nathan stared after him like a gawking schoolboy.

   They came to the door of a store bearing the name Kane's Haberdashery. Alana Birdsong entered, whistling Sam in after her. The haberdashery featured men's clothing and accessories ranging from pants, shirts, underwear, suits, and coats to hats, cuff links, and gloves. Alana Birdsong made for the sales counter manned by a male clerk her height with thinning red hair and a sea of freckles across his cheekbones. “Dennis, I've a young man in want of a warm coat for our journey to the ST. What would you recommend?” 

   Assured of a customer with whom there would be no haggling over price, Dennis's outrageously wide smile was that of the happy clown in grease paint. He assessed Nathan's size with an experienced eye, skirted the sales counter, and sped to a table piled high with short wool coats. Humming as he dug, he extracted a red and black plaid mackinaw. “This is the choice of most ranch hands. It has just three buttons and isn't bulky enough to bunch up around your middle. Got a high collar to keep the wind off your ears, too.”

   The clerk held the mackinaw up for Nathan to try. The coat fit snugly without binding against his holstered six-gun. If the center button was left undone, the pistol could be drawn through the resulting opening. The collar did indeed extend higher than his ears. 

   “Please charge the mackinaw to Seth's old account, Dennis,” Alana Birdsong ordered. “And Nathan needs a pair of your best riding gloves.”

   Their shopping completed, Alana Birdsong paused on the sidewalk outside the haberdashery long enough to chuckle and say, “The Buckmans bankroll Dennis Kane. Lyle Terry, the old gaffer with the broom, will come bouncing across the street soon as the coast is clear and Dennis's mouth will runneth over. It's almost too easy, Nephew.” 

   Kane's Haberdashery was part of a four-bay brick building. Their next stop was the last bay, L.P. Millinery according to the name above the door. Assuming his aunt was now shopping for herself, Nathan blithely trailed her and Sam into the ladies' hat shop. 

   The ringing of the small bell attached to the front door announced their arrival. Lila Blackridge Tanner had been passionate about hats, collars, and gloves, and having accompanied his mother on numerous visits to various St. Louis millineries during his growing years, Nathan could name most all the shop's inventory. Headdresses of every possible shape and color—wire-crowned straw hats with chiffon overlay and silver buckles, straw turbans with fancy rosettes of ribbon and knots of velvet, and flat straw hats of Milan braid with lace—adorned carved female heads that lined the front windows as well as the wall shelves of the shop.   Several tables contained embroidered bonnets, lace and silk collars, long dress gloves, silk mitts with kid palms, linen handkerchiefs, and other sundry feminine articles. None of the items offered were necessities other than perhaps a single quality hat, or so Nathan's father had raved to no avail.

   The paneled door at the shop's rear opened and Nathan froze in mid-stride. She wore a simple gray dress with white lace collar and her raven tresses were pinned atop her head, but Laura Payne was no less appealing. She was, Nathan concluded, that rare young woman who couldn't be unattractive if she tried. 

   The shock of her sudden appearance rendered Nathan speechless. “Why, Mr. Tanner, I believe you're at a loss for words,” Laura Payne quipped. “Perhaps Alana will take pity and speak for you.”

    So much for the hope she might have cooled down since the scene in his hotel room yesterday. Anger pecked at Nathan, and he blurted, “I'll wait outside. I wouldn't want to interfere with your shopping.”

   “Shopping? You think I'm shopping?”

   Heat built in Nathan. “Why else would you be in a millinery shop trying on hats?”

   Laura Payne snorted and took full advantage of his ignorance. “I happen to own this shop, Mr. Tanner, and men of your ilk aren't welcome.” 

   It was a biting, cruel dismissal. A sinking sensation washed through Nathan and he swore under his breath. Much as he disliked the thought of it, maybe the situation with her father precluded his being anywhere near Laura Paine, now or in the future. 

   His failure to respond infuriated Laura Payne. “Well, Mr. Tanner, I'm waiting,” she snapped. “You're trespassing, and if you don't leave my shop this very minute, I'll telephone Constable Allred?”

   Alana Birdsong moved to intercede. Nathan halted her with a raised hand. Even if it got him arrested, he wouldn't be run off like a hound with cans tied to its tail. He spurned the door and advanced on Laura Payne. Her lower lip commenced to quiver but she stood her ground with clenched fists. Neither did she flinch when Nathan seized her by the shoulders, pulled her to him, wrapped an arm about her, and kissed her flush on the mouth.