Bluff city, p.4
Bluff City, page 4
The sun was high when Baine awoke. He felt warm, and not just from the sun. He pressed a palm to his forehead and confirmed his worst fear. He had a fever. He had no choice now. He must take off his shirt and examine the wounds. But deciding to do it was one thing; doing it was another. No sooner did he pull at the bottom of his shirt than he learned it was stuck to his body. The dry blood was to blame. There was only one thing to do.
Baine unstrapped his gun belt. His moccasins were always a challenge to remove, but never more so than now. He tugged on first one and then the other. He was spent when he eventually got them off. A short rest, and he was able to stand and walk along the bank. He found what he was looking for around a bend. A tree had fallen and partially blocked the stream, creating a pool. It was not more than a couple of feet deep, but it would do.
Wading out to the center, Blaine sat down. The water rose to his neck. He propped himself with one arm. Just like the night before, the relief the water brought was marvelous. He stayed in the pool until his buckskins were waterlogged and hung loose on his frame. Then he sat on the bank and peeled what was left of his shirt over his head. In doing so he accidentally bumped his nose. The pain it caused was the worst yet. Gritting his teeth, he tossed his head from side to side and made hissing noises until the pain subsided.
He had been shot three times. Miraculously, all three slugs had gone clean through. One was in his right shoulder but had missed the collarbone. Another was in the fleshy part of his calf and had taken some flesh, but not severed an artery. The worst was the stomach wound. The exit hole was ugly. Of frightening size, it had long since stopped bleeding.
Try though he might, he could not see the entry hole. He twisted his neck as far as he could. He bent his body into contortions a snake would envy—to no avail. At a guess he would say his vitals had been spared, but only time would really tell.
Baine decided to make camp by the pool. He brought the saddle and the rest, and laid out his blankets. It took hours. He had to rest between trips. There was grass for the claybank, and a rock to pound the picket pin in. He donned his spare buckskin shirt and munched on the last of his jerky while lying back on his saddle. A deep lassitude came over him and he drifted off.
The rest of that day and most of the next he spent sleeping. His battered body craved rest. It also craved nourishment. He had plenty of water, but food required that he rouse himself, slide his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, and prowl the cottonwoods in search of game. He flushed a doe and brought her down with a head shot. He butchered her where he shot her so as not to have the scent of her blood near his camp, where it might draw predators.
He kindled a fire and roasted a haunch. He had known he was hungry, but his need went beyond hunger. He was truly and extraordinarily famished. He ate more meat at one sitting than at any time in his entire life. The rest he cut into strips and dried over a crude frame of broken limbs. He now had enough jerked venison to last weeks.
The days became pleasant blurs. He slept most of them away. Two or three times each day he stripped and soaked in the pool. He had been there ten days before he felt anything like his old self. The wounds and lacerations were healing. He had more energy. He took to taking walks. Short walks initially, then longer and longer walks, until one day he covered several miles going and coming back.
Baine had seldom experienced such peace. Peace of mind, the peace of his healing body and a different peace deep in his being. He was content to stay there until winter set in.
Then the real world intruded.
It was late one evening. Baine had slept through the afternoon and was awakened by the distant yip of a coyote. As he lay enjoying the tranquillity and his restored sense of well-being, the acrid scent of wood smoke drifted to his nose.
His own fire was out.
Grabbing the Winchester, Baine rose and tested the breeze. The source of the smoke was west of him, somewhere along the stream. Whoever it was, he told himself, did not know he was there and would move on in the morning. The smart thing to do was let well enough alone. But it had been so long since he set eyes on another human being that he could not resist his own curiosity.
A shadow among shadows, Baine cat-footed through the undergrowth. He had been over every square yard of both sides of the stream on his many walks, and the encroaching night did not hinder him.
Baine slowed when he spotted dancing fingers of flame. Soon he spied horses and, dropping flat, he crawled until he heard voices. A tingle ran through him. The language was not English or Spanish. He worked his way closer and saw them: three warriors in buckskins much like his own. Cheyenne, he suspected. Since they did not wear paint, they were not on the warpath. A hunting party, he reckoned, looking for buffalo. If he did not bother them they would not bother him.
Baine watched them a while. They were talking and smiling and laughing, just as whites would do. Bows and quivers and lances lay near them, but no rifles or revolvers.
About to leave as silently as he had snuck up, Baine glanced at their horses. His blood froze in his veins. There were four horses, not three. Either the fourth was a packhorse—or the Cheyenne had a sentry.
Baine had to slip away, and slip away quickly. But before he could suit act to desire, the brush parted and a lithe shape sprang, the blade of a knife glinting in the light from the campfire. A piercing whoop rent the night.
Rolling onto his back, Baine brought up the Winchester. He already had a round in the chamber. He thumbed back the hammer and fired. The shot caught the warrior in midair and smashed him back.
The other three were on their feet, hastily scooping up weapons. One shouted, calling to the warrior Baine had shot. Uncertainty held them for a moment, allowing Baine to rise into a crouch. Running would be pointless. They would follow. They would find him.
All three warriors broke for cover.
Baine had fought Indians before. In the dark the advantage was to the Cheyenne. They would surround him and slay him. He must draw them out of the dark and into his gun’s sights.
Baine ran toward their horses. The Cheyenne would think he was trying to run the animals off, and the last thing the Cheyenne wanted was to be on foot in the middle of the prairie.
A shriek and a rush of movement brought Baine around with the Winchester tucked at his side. He fired, worked the lever, fired again. The warrior crashed to earth mere feet away.
Crouching, Baine drew his Colt and set down the rifle. He was faster with the Colt. He waited, letting them come to him, and they did not disappoint. An arrow whizzed past his head, missing his ear by a whisker’s width. The bowman made the mistake of being silhouetted against the fire. Baine slammed off two swift shots, and the warrior staggered into the firelight and fell.
So far luck had favored Baine. But the last warrior would not make the mistakes his friends had. Carefully groping with his other hand, Baine found a stick. He tossed it high and wide to one side. From around a cottonwood glided the last warrior. He was peering at the spot where the stick had struck and not at Baine. Baine fanned the Colt, emptying it, and the deed was done.
Baine felt no sense of elation. He never did when he killed. He felt sorry about the Cheyenne. He should not have investigated the smoke.
The remains of a rabbit were skewered on a spit. A beaded parfleche caught his eye. Inside were a whetstone, extra feathers for arrows, an eagle’s claw and a bear’s tooth, and a small hand mirror neatly folded in a piece of cloth.
During his many immersions in the pool, Baine had never looked at his reflection. He could not stand the sight of his face, and he imagined it would be worse now, with the scars. But to his delight he had healed nicely. He had a small scar on his left eyebrow and another on his chin, but that was all. He started to put the mirror down, then snapped it up again.
“No!” Baine cried. Astonishment seized him, and he placed a hand to his face to confirm the testimony of his eyes. “It can’t be!”
For over an hour Neville Baine stared into that mirror. For over an hour tears streaked his cheeks and his broad shoulders shook to quiet sobs. The only words he uttered in all that time were “Thank you.”
Chapter 5
Bluff City was a product of the mining boom. A back-woodsman from Kentucky, looking for a spot to build a cabin, noticed a bright gleam high on a craggy bluff. He climbed up to find the source of the gleam and stumbled on a rich vein of silver. Word spread, more silver was discovered, and a new city sprouted on the broad tableland below the bluff.
The early founders were ambitious. Their first meeting was in one of many tents that lined the creek that flowed down from the bluff. They needed a name for their new town, and someone had a brainstorm.
Bluff City it became. But they did not stop there. The bluff laced with silver became Bluff Mountain. The creek became Bluff Creek.
The buildings that sprang up as the money-hungry poured in shared in the fondness for the name. There was the Bluff City General Store and the Bluff Creek Mortuary. The First Bank of Bluff City competed with the Greater Bank of Bluff City. The Bluff City Stable was at one end of the main thoroughfare, Bluff Street; at the other end was the one-room Bluff City School.
Bluff City was called the Queen of Silver, a shining beacon of raw greed. Many of her whiskey mills and houses of ill repute were open twenty-four hours and never lacked for customers. Games of chance drew the gullible and professional in droves. Doves paraded their carnal wares along Bluff Street from sunset to sunrise.
Into this sprawl of bedlam, on a morning in the early fall, rode a young man in a brown suit and a matching derby. He had black hair cropped close to his head and was clean-shaven. His shoes were polished to a sheen. He sat easy in the saddle and had an air of competence about him. His eyes were a penetrating blue.
The young man drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the Bluff City Courier. He lithely alighted, wrapped the reins around the rail, and stood regarding the hustle and bustle of Bluff City life. He turned to open the door and bumped into someone about to do the same.
“I beg your pardon.”
Shock rooted the young man. Snatching his derby off, he blurted, “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t see you.”
“Plainly not,” said the object of his shock. She was about his age, with a wreath of blond curls, emerald eyes and ruby lips. Her dress was plain and prim, contrasting sharply with her llama jacket. “Well, are you going to stand there gawking or be a gentleman and open the door for me?”
The young man reacted as if poked with a sword. He stood aside as she swept past him, then followed her in but stayed well behind her.
A bellow from the back of the newspaper office heralded a stout man with remarkably thick mutton-chops. He had his jacket off and his thumbs were wrapped around his suspenders. “Melanie! It’s about time! Where have you been, girl? Taking a promenade about our fair city?”
“Bluff City is a harlot, not a maiden,” the blond vision said. She pushed against a small gate that admitted her to the part of the room barred to the general public. “And how many times must I tell you not to call me ‘girl’?”
“I am your employer and will do as I please.”
“You are also my uncle, and I will kick you in the shins if you ever do it again.” Melanie set down the parcel she was carrying and absently swiped at a stray bang. “Now then, do you want the details of the tunnel collapse or would you rather my morning be wasted?”
The man with the muttonchops noticed the young man in the brown suit and came over to a counter cluttered with a stack of newspapers, pencils, pens, ink, loose sheets of paper, and a Bible. “You must excuse my niece. Somewhere or other she got it into her head that the world must adjust its schedule to her and not the other way around.”
“Sir?” The young man smiled sheepishly.
The blonde put her hands on her shapely hips. “How dare you carp about me to a complete stranger?”
“I can remedy that.” Her uncle thrust out an ink-stained hand. “Jerome Stanley, at your service. This humble enterprise happens to be mine.”
The young man shook.
“And you?” Stanley said.
“Me what?”
“Your name, sir. Your name. You do have one, I would imagine.”
A look of bewilderment came over the young man. “Of course I do.”
“Then what would it be, if you do not mind my prying?”
“Clay, sir. My name is Clay.”
Jerome Stanley waited, then asked, “Would that be the first or the last?”
“What? Oh.” The young man scanned the counter and his gaze fixed on one object in particular. “Adams. My name is Clay Adams.”
“There, now,” Stanley said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? And what can we do for you, Clay Adams?”
“I need a job,” Clay Adams said. “I figured I would start here at the newspaper office.”
“An excellent choice. We run a list of jobs wanted in the Courier. If you can part with five cents, I will sell you a copy of the latest edition.”
“No. I mean I wanted to apply here,” Clay Adams said.
Melanie had sat at a desk and was rummaging in a drawer. She did not appear to be listening, but suddenly she was on her feet, saying, “We do need someone at the counter, Uncle Jerome. Betsy had to quit on account of the baby.”
“What?” Stanley said. “Oh. Yes. I forgot. But I usually hire a woman for that. It is tedious work, hardly befitting a strapping young man like Mr. Adams, here.”
“Why don’t we let him be the judge of that?” Melanie rebutted. “Ask him.”
Stanley glanced from her to Clay Adams and back again. “Ah. As you wish. Would you be interested in a job at the Courier, Mr. Adams? Five dollars a week to start. Later, if you show aptitude, you could move up to typesetter, or perhaps journalist if you are as adventurous as my niece.”
“It sounds suitable,” Clay said.
“Can you read and write?”
“Tolerably. My ma taught me. It got so I could read from the Bible without having to say the words out loud. But my writing is more chicken scratch than cursive.”
Jerome Stanley chuckled. “You should see mine. My niece writes impeccably, but then she prides herself on doing everything impeccably. It comes from being a natural show-off.”
Melanie flushed and said, “Remember what I said about your shins, Uncle.”
Ignoring her, Stanley said to Clay, “How is your patience? Do you have a little or a lot?”
“Sir?”
“The counterman has to deal with idiots and chuckleheads on a daily basis. Such as the gent who was in here earlier wanting us to do a story about his pet rat. Or the woman yesterday who wanted me to write an editorial proposing we ban pigs and hogs from the city streets.”
“I reckon I can tolerate fools as well as the next man,” Clay Adams said.
“Very well, then. I will ask you again. Are you interested in the job? My niece will teach you everything you need to know.”
“I’ll what?”
“Yes, I would like the job,” Clay Adams said. “I only hope I can live up to your trust in me.”
Stanley’s brown eyes crinkled with amusement. “Son, it’s not like you will be guarding a bank. You will be taking ads and subscriptions, and doing the lost and found; those sorts of things.”
“And you expect me to show him what to do?” Melanie asked. “On top of all the other responsibilities I have?”
“Oh, my,” Jerome Stanley said. “What was I thinking? It should take you all of fifteen minutes. We have hours yet before the next edition goes to press, so you have ample time to write your report on the cave-in.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Uncle.”
Stanley winked at Clay Adams. “When she is polite like that, it usually means she is about to unsheathe her claws. I will take that as a hint to hie me elsewhere and leave you in her razor-sharp hands.” He merrily made for a Washington Hand Press.
Clay laughed, earning a pointed glare from Melanie Stanley. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But your uncle is a hoot.”
“If by that you mean a wise old owl, that he is. He is also the most scrupulously honest man I have ever known.”
“Honesty means a lot to you, does it, ma’am?”
“I cannot abide deceit, Mr. Adams. Which explains why I ferret it out for a living. And why I respect honesty more than any other trait.” Melanie looked at him. “Are you honest by nature, Mr. Adams?”
“I like to think so, ma’am.”
“That’s nice to hear. Otherwise we would not get along. And please stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me sound old.”
“If you will call me Clay instead of Mr. Adams, I will call you Miss Stanley instead of ma’am.”
“We’ve only just met and you encourage such familiarity? Why, Mr. Adams, I am scandalized.”
Now it was Clay who blushed. “If I have offended you in any way, ma’am, I mean, if I have hurt your feelings somehow, Miss Stanley, I mean—”
“Goodness gracious,” she interrupted. “Do you always stutter so? I was teasing, Mr. Adams. Or shall I call you Clay? You can call me Melanie.” She opened the gate for him. “Now that you are an employee, you are entitled to come on through.”
Clay took a step, and stopped.
“What is the matter? Second thoughts?”
“No, ma—No, Melanie. It’s just I have never had a woman hold a door for me before. Even if it is a little bitty one with slats.”
Melanie laughed and placed her hand on his arm. “I get it now. You are doing this to entertain me. I must say, your impression of a yokel is remarkable.”
Clay Adams wrung his derby and said, “I aim to please you.”
While the rest of the staff went about their usual routine, the blond chronicler showed the new clerk how to go about his own. Which forms to use. Where the pencil sharpener was kept. Where the ink was stored. How to determine the rates for a given advertisement. Where to file subscriptions.
