The Long Trail Home (4 page)

“He wouldn't give that gun to anyone on the face of the earth.” A cold sweat broke across Fortune's forehead. “Not while there was a breath of life in him, anyway.”

CHAPTER TWO

Antelope Flats, along the disputed

Texas/Indian Territory border

Piney ain't all here, you know.” The man's narrow, straight sideburns dropped off below his jowls and made his lower jaw look like a locomotive piston when he spoke. He wore a dark gray, wool suit with a matching vest, dingy white shirt, and stained gray tie. The suit, dusty and slightly wrinkled, lacked the entire right sleeve of the jacket, as though it had been ripped off at the shoulder.

Sam Fortune leaned against the red-spoked wagon wheel as the two mules drank from the leaky, wooden water trough. Sam's square, broad shoulders contrasted with his thin face.

In front of a one-story adobe building with a faded sign that read “The Ohaysis,” stretched a huge patch of prickly pear cactus like a spiny wart on the June-dry dirt. He looked up and down the two blocks that contained every building. Antelope Flats proved a busy town only in the man-made shade. Sam couldn't spot a tree anywhere.

He turned to the man with one coat sleeve. “What do you mean, ‘Piney ain't here'? Where is she?”

“Oh, she's here—not here at the Ohaysis—but here in town. Yes sir, I seen her out walkin' just this mornin'. But she took . . . what you might call ‘a bad fall' a couple months ago. She don't think too clear nowadays.”

“How did she fall?” Sam asked.

“Well, you know how she liked to wrestle?” The man paused and studied Fortune.

“Are we talkin' about the same Piney?” Sam questioned as he reached under the wagon seat and pulled out a thick, black brush. “She's about six feet tall, thin as a rail, with long, straight blond hair?”

“Yep, that's Piney Burleson. Say, I didn't catch your name.”

Fortune began to brush down the mules. “I'm Sam.”

The round-faced man with the flat nose tugged a flour-sack towel out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “And you're a friend of Piney's?” he pursued.

“Yep.”

Fine yellowish dust fogged up from the dark brown backs of the mules.

“My name's Dillerd. Besides being the proprietor of the Ohaysis, I own a few lots here in town. You interested in buyin'?”

Fortune observed that the man's left boot had a heel about two inches taller than the right one. “I just want to know what happened to Piney.”

Dillerd pulled a folded, worn piece of yellowed paper from his suit coat pocket and waved it to the east. “I got a corner lot right across from the undertaker's for only seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Mister, would I be drivin' a wagon like this if I had seven hundred and fifty dollars?” Fortune patted the rump of the mule and tossed the brush back under the wagon seat.

“I reckon you wouldn't. But that price is flexible. Just between you and me, I'd settle for $500 for the lot.”

Sam had a bitter alkali taste in his mouth and was tempted to scoop a palm of water from the trough. “You were tellin' me how Piney likes to wrestle,” he reminded.

“Yep. Her and Cammie Woodell was puttin' on a match in back of Chet Bramer's farm wagon, right out there by the city well.” His round, brown eyes danced under bushy, graying eyebrows. “Piney was jist about to whip her, but Cammie bit her on the ear, a clear violation of the rules—what there is of them—and you know how Piney hates the sight of blood, especially her own. So she let out a scream that surely could have been heard all the way down to the Mexican border. The team of horses hitched up to the wagon must've had sensitive ears, 'cause when the scream commenced, they bolted ahead. Piney tumbled off the wagon and under the back wheel that ran smack dab over her head.” The man with the one-sleeved suit nodded his head as if to punctuate the conclusion of his oration.

Sam heard a rooster crow, a dog bark, a woman shout. He studied the street as he continued to talk to Dillerd. “The wheel ran over Piney's head, and it didn't break her neck?”

“Nope.” Dillerd pointed a stubby finger at Fortune. “Doc said it didn't break nothin' that he could find, but she ain't exactly been the same since.”

Sam rested his fingers in the empty bullet loops at the back of his belt. “Where does she live?”

“That second, little white cabin down there behind the hardware. But sometimes she don't come home for days. The boys find her wanderin' out on the plains or sleepin' behind the jailhouse.”

Scanning across the swirling dust of the only street in Antelope Flats, he spotted a woman in a long white dress enter the tall narrow door of the hardware. “But you saw her this mornin'?”

“Yep.” Dillerd shoved the folded papers back into his suit coat pocket. “You know I could let a fine gentleman like you have that lot for $250. Anyway none of us gets too close to Piney. She totes a .50-caliber Sharps carbine around mumbling about finding fortune.”

“Fortune?”

“That's what she hollers. But like I said, she is a tad touched.”

Sam Fortune studied the fine yellowish dust that hung like morning mist above the street.
I never in my life knew Piney Burleson to wrestle. All that girl ever wanted to do was dance. My-o-my how she can dance. She was queen of the ball more than once at Fort Smith.

“You goin' to look for her?” the man pressed.

Sam rubbed his thick, sandy blond and gray mustache. “I reckon so.”

“Well, if you need some place to wash down the dust, remember the Ohaysis. It's the nicest establishment in Antelope Flats.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dillerd. I don't think I'll be in town very long.”

The shorter man peered out at the totally barren western horizon. “You ain't headed out on the plains, are you?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“A tornado hit out there three days ago. It picked up a grove of cottonwoods and planted them in the next county—if there were counties out there—which there ain't.”

“No harm in me leavin' the rig here while I look for Piney, is there?”

“Nope. Say, is that half-breed jist goin' to hunker down in the back of the wagon, or is he gettin' out? His money is jist as good as the next man's at the Ohaysis.”

Sam smiled. “I reckon that all depends on who is in town.”

“We ain't got a marshal. The last one took off with Cammie Woodell after that big wrestlin' match. He's probably dead by now. You know how Cammie is when she gets moody.” Dillerd retreated toward the arched front door of the adobe building. Halfway past the prickly pear cactus, he turned back. “You boys come in and have a drink before you go out on the plains.”

Sam stepped around to the back of the wagon. “I presume you heard all of that?”

Kiowa Fox continued to lay flat on his back. “How'd he know I was in here?”

“I don't know.” Fortune chuckled, “Maybe he smelled you.”

Kiowa propped himself up on his elbows. “That might be more true than I want to admit.”

In the distance, Sam watched a man stagger out of the Armadillo Cafe, spin around, and stagger back inside. “You gettin' out now?”

“You seen any bounty men?”

“I haven't looked.”

Kiowa laid back down. “I think I'll wait here for Ladosa to bring back some food.”

Sam ran his fingers across the chipped gray paint on the tailgate of the paneled wagon. “Did you hear what Dillerd said about Piney?”

“Yep.” Kiowa laced his hands behind his head for a temporary pillow. “I wonder if she still likes to dance?”

“I was thinkin' the same thing. When Ladosa comes back with the goods, tell her about Piney. They were close when they lived at Fort Smith. You two wait here at the wagon. It can't take me too long to find her.”

“She's totin' your Sharps.”

Sam tugged his black, beaver felt hat down in the front. “She's totin' Daddy's Sharps.”

To the west, dark clouds swirled in the hot June sky like an evil potion in a witch's cauldron. In Antelope Flats the fine alkali dust kept eyes squinted and vision limited. No one moved. All seemed to be watching and waiting to see what the weather did next.

At first, Sam avoided the saloons and searched the stores, shops, and restaurants for any sign of Piney Burleson. Everyone he talked to had seen her, but no one knew where she was. He had just stepped outside the Red Pearitt Café when he noticed a commotion across the street in the path that ran between Cranby's Saloon #1 and Cranby's Saloon #2.

Sam yanked his stampede string tight under his chin as he stepped out into the street. Dirt blasted his face and pricked his eyes. As he scooted down the narrow dirt path between the two saloons he sized up three cowboys that badgered a six-foot tall, thin woman with long, uncombed blond hair wearing an ankle-length, black dress. She waved a single-shot Sharps carbine in front of her.

“Back off, boys!” Fortune shouted from behind the men.

All three spun around, hands resting on holstered pistols. They blocked his vision of the woman.

“Who do you think you are?” A smear of fresh blood donned the cheek of the clean-shaven man.

“I want to talk to the lady. Go find yourself a nice saloon to ride out this dust storm.”

“Like hades we will.” The second man sported a thick mustache that hung like branches on a weeping willow tree. “You can wait your turn 'til we're through with her.”

Sam stepped toward the woman with wild, blue eyes. A black-bearded man blocked his way. One glance from Fortune caused the man to slide sideways up against the unpainted board and batting of Cranby's Saloon #2.

“She's got my Sharps carbine,” the man mumbled.

Without pulling it out of the holster, Sam cocked the hammer of his .44 and pressed his chest against the shorter man's shoulder. “That's not your carbine, and you know it.” Sam positioned himself between the woman and the men.

The bearded one backed toward the street, as did the other two. “I paid her a cash dollar for it.”

“That's right, mister . . . I seen him,” one of the others concurred.

Fortune reached into his vest pocket and felt his last coin. He shoved it into the man's hand. “Here's your dollar back.”

The man threw the silver coin to the dirt. “I don't want no dollar. I want the Sharps .50.”

“Pick up the dollar, and get out of here,” Fortune growled.

“You think you're man enough to take us all on?” the third man challenged. He wore a tattered, brown felt hat that revealed a two-inch hatband of sweat.

“It won't take a man to do that.” Sam slipped the hammer down on his cocked Colt pistol. “The lady was doin' fine without me.” He turned his back to the men and faced the frightened woman.

“Howdy, Piney, darlin', . . .” he tipped his hat. “Have you missed me?”

A wide, dusty grin broke across the pale, narrow face of the woman, revealing straight white teeth. “You're late, Sam Fortune!”

He ignored the men behind him. “I know, darlin'. My horse took a tumble, and I had to hitch a ride.”

“It's OK, Sammy. I was waitin' for you,” she explained.

He offered her his arm.

She straightened the mud-caked lace collar of her black dress and took his arm with her left hand. In her right, she still clutched the carbine by the receiver. They walked toward the three men in the alley.

“Did she call you Sam Fortune?” Sweaty Hat asked.

“Yep.”

They backed up. “We didn't know it was you, Mr. Fortune. Nobody told us you was in town,” Drooping Mustache explained.

“Pick up that dollar, and get out of our way.”

The man with the beard scooped up the coin. “Yes sir.”

“We heard you was dead,” the one with the blood-smeared cheek mumbled.

Sam laced his fingers into Piney's. They felt bony, sticky, and warm. “Now who would tell you somethin' like that?”

The man stumbled, but his compadres caught him as the trio continued to back out of the alley. “Johnny Creek.”

“Johnny Creek got hung last month in Choteau,” Sam informed them.

“Well, I'll be . . .” Drooping Mustache muttered. They scurried into the street and into Cranby's Saloon #1.

When Sam and Piney reached the dusty street, she pushed her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. He pulled her shoulders to his chest and ran his calloused fingers through her tangled hair.

“I got hurt, Sammy.” Her voice was tight, like a violin out of tune.

“That's what I heard, darlin'.”

“Some days I cain't even remember my own name.”

“It's OK, darlin' . . . it's OK.”

He rocked her back and forth, while several faces peered at them from the saloon window.

“They took away my bullets.”

“For the carbine?”

“They said I might hurt someone. All I have is this one brass casing.”

Several men came out on the saloon porch and stared at them.