The Long Trail Home (3 page)

“What shall I say?”

“Anythin' that'll make him hurry in here with his gun in his holster.”

“What if he won't come?”

“Honey, any man that won't come when you call ain't much of a man.”

She kissed his lips then scooted over to the partially open door.

“S. D.?” she sang out. “I'm scared up here by myself. Why don't you come up here and keep me company?”

A deep voice rumbled up from the room below, “We're waitin' for Fortune to make his move.”

“Well, havin' one gun at the head of the stairs would be a good position, wouldn't it?” she persuaded. “I'm really, really lonesome.”

Boot heels rattled across the wooden saloon floor and started up the stairs. Sam motioned toward the bed, Ladosa stepped back, and he crouched behind the now open door.

“Don't just stand in the doorway, Deputy,” Ladosa cooed.

He took two steps forward.

Fortune slammed the barrel of his .44 revolver into the back of the man's head and kicked the door closed.

The deputy collapsed on the bed.

Ladosa scampered to the window and out on the ladder with her valise.

Sam opened the door slowly, grateful it didn't squeak. He sat on the stairs and slid down one step at a time, his pistol in his right hand, his head behind the handrail. The room was coal black. He listened carefully as he neared the saloon floor. The voices were muted, anxious.

“That deputy has the right idea.”

“It sure beats sweatin' here in the dark.”

“They's left for sure. There ain't nothin' in all of Dry Fork that Sam Fortune wants to steal.”

“Our horses are still out there. I say they're out there, and they're goin' to steal our horses.”

“Well, they ain't gettin' much there. We stole 'em three days ago and purty near rode 'em down. I say we're missin' out on a good poker game.”

“Ain't nothin' good about it. You was cheatin', Leon, and you knowed it.”

Fortune heard the hammer on a revolver click.

“You callin' me a card cheat?”

“Not in the dark, I ain't. Simmer down. Let's have another whiskey.”

“Cain't—the bartender is asleep on top the bar, a pistol in each hand.”

“The deputy went upstairs. The bartender's snorin'. They ain't takin' this seriously!”

“If it's so blame serious, why don't you go out there in the dark after Fortune and that half-breed?”

“I ain't goin' out there until it breaks day.”

“Well, ain't this a fine sight? They probably stole our horses and rode off, and we is hidin' under our desks like schoolgirls.”

“Our horses are still there,” one voice reported.

“Well, if somethin' don't happen soon, I'm goin' to play poker.”

Sam Fortune tugged off his boots and padded slowly toward the bar in his stocking feet. With his eyes adjusted, the room's shadows varied from dark gray to black to dark black.

His big toe stuck out of his sock and brushed along the sticky wooden floor. He slipped behind the bar and sniffed his way to the unbathed bartender. Sam pinched the man's nose closed and shoved the barrel of his .44 into his mouth. The startled man jerked up but found his head pinned to the top of the bar. Fortune yanked both revolvers out of the man's hands.

“Hey, barkeep, you awake? We want some whiskey over here—the good kind,” someone demanded.

“He's still asleep,” another guessed.

“He ain't snorin'.”

“I'll get the whiskey.”

Sam hunkered down behind the bar and listened to the man's boots.

“How am I goin' to see which is the good whiskey?”

“Light a match.”

“Fortune will shoot me fer sure if he sees a light in here.”

“Squat down behind the bar to light it. He can't see through walls, and you're too far from the door.”

Sam held one of the bartender's revolvers in each hand. Only a few feet away, he heard the man fumble for a match. Suddenly the light flared and Sam jammed a barrel in each of the man's ears.

The man's eyes widened.

The match dropped.

“Tell them to light a lantern,” Fortune hissed as he forced the man to his feet with guns in place.

“Light a lantern . . .,” the man managed to choke out.

“We ain't goin' to light no lantern. Use a match.”

Fortune pulled both hammers back at the same time. “I said light a lantern!” Sam's captive hollered.

“Get away from the windows, boys,” one warned. “I want to see what's goin' on over there.”

When the kerosene lantern began to glow, Fortune sat on the bar behind a frightened man with one gun in his ear. The other revolver pointed at the three near the front door.

“How'd you get in here?” one of them roared.

“Lay your guns on the floor,” he ordered.

“What's he doin'?” one of the men pointed to the bartender, who laid on his back on the bar. Fortune's revolver stuck in his mouth like a steel sucker.

“He's lyin' real still. I've got such a hair trigger on that gun—if he even moves his head a half-inch, it will go off.”

“But you ain't got your hand on it.”

“Doesn't matter. You so much as stomp your foot, and it will send a lead ball through the back of his brain.”

“I don't believe that,” one growled.

“I doesn't matter what you believe. It's what the bartender believes that counts,” Sam added.

“Do what he says, boys. You ain't got a gun stuck in your ear,” the one next to Fortune blurted out.

“We ain't goin' to put down our guns and let you kill us unarmed,” another insisted.

“You ever known Sam Fortune to shoot an unarmed man?” The three spun around to see the grinning face of Kiowa Fox.

The bartender mumbled something.

“What'd he say?”

“I think he said to lay down your guns,” Fortune smiled. “Either that, or he wants me to uncock the pistol in his mouth.”

The three dropped their revolvers on the floor of the saloon.

“Now stand up,” Sam ordered.

“What are you goin' to do, Fortune?”

“I'm just goin' on down the road, boys. I don't aim for any back shooters to be followin' me. Kiowa, hunt up all the rope you can find. Let's tie these boys tight.”

The man on the bar continued to sweat and stare at the pistol in his mouth while Kiowa tied the four others to their chairs around the poker table. He tied their hands in their laps and their shoulders and feet to the straight-backed wooden chairs, and then he shuffled the cards.

“What are you doin'?” one asked.

“Figured you might want to do a little bettin'.” Kiowa dealt out four hands of five cards each. Then he fanned the cards and wedged them into their bound hands.

“We ain't takin' this lightly,” the heaviest of the men sneered. “They hang horse thieves around here!”

“Since when?” Kiowa challenged. “You four are still alive. Besides, we aren't taking your horses,” he added.

Kiowa strolled behind the bar. “How about this one?” he indicated the barkeep.

“Retrieve my gun for me.”

Kiowa yanked the gun out of the barkeep's mouth. “Look at this, Sam—you had this gun clicked only once, not even at full cock. It couldn't have gone off even if you'd pulled the trigger.”

Fortune grinned. “Well, I'll be!”

“That ain't funny!” The bartender raised his head straight up, and Kiowa crashed the barrel of the revolver into it. The man crumpled back onto the bar. “I ran out of rope,” Kiowa shrugged. “Shall we leave the lantern on?”

“Sure, we don't want these boys to play poker in the dark.”

A shot crashed into the painting behind the bar and showered Kiowa with splinters. He dove down. The man who had been passed out on the faro table now propped on one elbow and waved an old Walker Colt. Sam dropped to the floor and rolled. The man's second shot misfired in the barrel of the gun, and the recoil sent the barrel flying back into his temple. Again he collapsed on the faro table.

“I think he knocked himself out,” Sam informed Kiowa, who crouched behind the bar.

Kiowa stood up and peered across the shadows. “I liked that ol' boy best when he was dead.”

“Yank off his belt and tie his hands to the legs of that table before he resurrects himself again,” Fortune instructed. “I'll go get the horses.”

“You steal our horses, and we'll track you down!” one of the men at the poker table screamed.

“I didn't say I'm goin' to steal the horses, I said ‘get the horses.'”

Ladosa McKay sat in the front seat of the wagon and watched as Fox and Fortune tossed saddles into the boulders and tugged, pushed, and cajoled each of the six horses through the front door into the saloon. When they had finished they threw the bridles into the rocks with the saddles.

Kiowa stared at the darkness of the saloon, “You change your mind about the lantern?”

“Didn't want those horses kickin' it over and startin' a fire,” Sam explained.

“They'll get panicky pretty soon,” Kiowa reported.

“The men or the horses?”

“Both. Did you nail the doors shut?”

Sam pushed his hat back. “All the doors and windows.”

“That ought to make for an interestin' evenin'.”

“And who said it's boring out here on the plains?” Sam swung up in the wagon to Ladosa's side. Kiowa Fox on the other.

Sam slipped his arm around her shoulders. “All right, darlin', take us to Kansas.”

The wagon lurched forward into the dark June night.

“Sam Fortune, I cain't for the life of me see how you ever stayed alive this long,” she said. “It must be your mama's prayers.”

Fortune's voice was soft. “Mama died thirteen years ago. But Daddy is a prayin' man.”

“Good,” Ladosa encouraged. “'Cause we might need them prayers tonight. If they get loose, they'll follow us. A mule wagon is mighty easy to track.”

Sam hugged her shoulders. “They won't follow. We didn't steal anythin'.”

“Yeah, somehow that don't seem right,” Kiowa added. “At least we could have taken some food.”

“You don't want anything from that kitchen,” Ladosa warned. “The meat's spoiled.”

By sunrise they crossed into the Texas panhandle and headed north toward the Canadian River. The heavy clouds kept the air hot and humid. Kiowa slept in the back of the half-empty wagon as Ladosa continued to drive.

Her voice sounded sleepy, “We've got to buy some supplies if we're goin' all the way to Dodge.”

Fortune studied the treeless horizon. “Maybe we ought to drive over to Antelope Flats and buy some food.”

“I'll get arrested if I show up in Antelope,” Kiowa called out.

“Is there anywhere you could go and not get arrested?” Ladosa questioned.

“Dry Fork . . .,” he laughed. “But go on into Antelope Flats. I'll jist hide out back here. Besides, I could use the sleep.”

“I presume you two are flat out busted, being on foot and all,” Ladosa probed.

“We've got a couple dollars,” Fortune confessed.

“Let me get this straight,” she brushed her fingers through her long, black, uncombed hair: “You two talk me into leavin' with you, only I have to provide the rig and the grub?”

“Mighty presumptuous, ain't it?” Kiowa called out.

She wiped the back of her hand across her small, round nose. “It's sad. Course, it was the best offer I've had in months.”

“Now, that's sad,” Sam laughed. He glanced back at Kiowa. “We'd better buy some bullets in Antelope Flats . . . if Ladosa can afford it.”

She slapped the lead lines on the mule's rump, but the animal kept to its plodding gait. “We need to go to Antelope Flats for your package, unless you've already picked it up.”

Sam stretched out his arms and tried to loosen a dirty, stiff neck. “What package are you talkin' about?”

“Piney Burleson has been lookin' all over the Territory for you, because she has a package for you. Last I heard she was in Antelope Flats,” Ladosa explained.

“I haven't seen Piney since I got out of prison.”

“Well, she told me to tell you about a package from Deadwood, Dakota Territory.”

Kiowa sat up in the back of the wagon. “You got family in Deadwood, don't you, Sam?”

“My older brother and his wife . . . Li'l sis is there with—”

“Your daddy's in Deadwood, ain't he?” Kiowa pressed.

“Last I heard,” Sam mumbled.

Kiowa reached forward and slapped him on the back. “Well, they done sent you a Christmas present, boy, and you ain't picked it up.”

Sam stared out across the bare panhandle plains. A stiff wind blew from the south. “It's June.”

“Piney's held onto it for months,” Ladosa added.

“I thought she was in Fort Smith,” Fortune murmured.

“Nope. She's up at Antelope Flats. She opened up a . . . sewing business.”

“Could be a trap,” Kiowa warned. “Someone might jist be using the parcel to get you within shootin' distance, Sammy.”

“Kiowa's got a point. It might not be smart to go where someone's expectin' me, just for a moldy fruitcake.”

“It ain't a fruitcake. It's a Sharps carbine.” Ladosa asserted, “And we ain't goin' to Dodge City until you pick it up.”

Sam Fortune jerked around. He felt like someone had kicked him in the ribs. “A what?”

“Piney peeked at it and told me it was a converted .50-caliber Sharps, saddle-ring carbine. Now, that's worth gettin', ain't it?”

Sam yanked the lead lines out of her hands and jerked the rig to a stop. “That's Daddy's gun!” he blurted out.

“Well, it's yours now.” She grabbed the lead lines away and lurched the rig forward.