Laramie Read online

  Simon hurried his meager meal, wanting to get to Sarah’s house for their walk to school. Sarah with her fair skin, and a lilting laugh that made the mockingbirds jealous. His father sat down and Ana poured him a cup of coffee. “That’s the last,” she said sadly, and then she put her hand on Simon’s shoulder and squeezed. “You better get going, Sarah will leave you.” She prodded him on the shoulder. “Hurry.” She prodded him again, harder.

  Simon awoke with a start, looked around for his family, and found Buell standing over him.

  “Wake up, ya slug.” Buell nudged Simon on the shoulder with his boot. “Coffee’s ready.” He offered a cup. “Here.”

  Simon sat up and took it. “Thanks. Dreamt I was back in the old sod house. Trying to hurry through breakfast like I used to. Wanted to see Sar—” His mouth snapped shut and his brow furrowed. “Cold this morning.” He took a couple sips of the scalding brew, then put the cup on the ground and folded back the canvas cover of his bedroll. He dragged his boots out of the bottom and put them on. Standing, he grabbed the jacket he’d used for a pillow and shrugged into it. Then, cup in hand, he moved closer to the fire.

  “Still had some hot coals, twern’t no problem gettin’ a fire goin’.” Buell blew steam off his cup and sipped it gently.

  “Want me to fry some bacon?” Simon turned his back to the fire and rubbed the heat into his butt.

  “Naw, I already ate three or four of yer corn cakes. I’m ready to go.”

  “Where’re the horses?” Simon looked into the trees.

  “Right down on the riverbank. You eat what ya want. I’ll go get ’em.” Buell set his cup on a flat fire-ring rock, and headed for the river.

  Simon picked up two cakes, warm from the fire, and with alternating sips of coffee and bites of fritter, had breakfast eaten in a matter of minutes. He had his bed rolled and was ready to saddle up before Buell got back.

  Platte City appeared bigger than Carlisle, a lot bigger. The Union Pacific Railroad had made it a center for maintenance and supplies, bringing hundreds of people to the area. They’d also built a big hotel, and Main Street featured several two-story buildings. Simon rode down the center of the street looking at all the businesses. A boardwalk ran down either side, and even at this early hour, the place bustled with traffic. He found a mercantile sign and tied his horse out front.

  Inside, the familiar smell, still very fresh in his memory, swept him back to Carlisle for a moment, back to Swartz’s store. He’d worked there for nearly three years, clerking, filling orders, stocking, ordering, and even changing the way inventory was tracked and paid for. The nostalgia also brought back the anger of being falsely accused of stealing, and being barred from the store.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A young man in his mid twenties stood behind the counter.

  “Uh, yes, thank you. I need four pounds of corn meal, two cans each of plums, peaches, and pears, six cans of beans, some sugar and four pounds of bacon. And an old beanbag, or something like that to carry it in. I’m on horseback.”

  “No problem.” The clerk finished writing on his pad. “That’ll take just a few minutes. Anything else?”

  “Do you have a newspaper?”

  “Local or out of town?” asked the young man, pride in his voice. “We have both.”

  “Lincoln County if you have it.”

  “We do, sir. Should I put it with the order or do you want to have it now?”

  It surprised Simon that he could get a hometown paper, and it must have showed.

  “With the railroad, we get all manner of things from the East we never dreamed of only five years ago.” The storekeeper waited for Simon to answer.

  Simon’s desire to have news of home and the need to make a clean break fought for control. “Never mind.”

  “Very well.” The clerk hustled off.

  Back on the street, Simon picked out a gunsmith’s shop two doors down. Buell had asked him to look for one and get some more primer caps for his pistol. Simon went in. “I need a tin of number-ten caps.”

  “Right here,” the gunsmith said as he reached under the counter. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I need a rifle. My partner and I are going to Fort Laramie, and I’d feel a little safer if we had something along besides a pistol.” Simon scanned the rack behind the counter.

  “You looking for a percussion rifle or something a little more up-to-date?” the smith asked, glancing at the primers.

  “Well, all I’ve ever shot is percussion, so I don’t know.”

  “Let me show you something.” Anticipation lit the man’s face. “You’ll like this.” He stepped into his back room and returned with a long, lever-action rifle. He handed it to Simon.

  “I’ve seen one of these one time. It’s a new Winchester isn’t it?” Simon ran his hand over the smooth walnut stock.

  “You’re right, Model eighteen sixty-six King Improved. Load it on Sunday and shoot it all week. That’s what the Rebs said about it.” He leaned back against the rear counter as Simon admired the gun.

  “Is this one new?”

  “Nope, bought it from a soldier ’bout a month ago. He bought it new though, and then mustered out. I’ve checked it over, and if it’s been fired more’n twenty times I’ll eat that tin o’ primers. Make ya a good deal on it.”

  “How much?” Simon gritted his teeth and watched the gunsmith’s face.

  “Fifty dollars.” The smith didn’t bat an eye.

  “I worked a long time for fifty dollars. I don’t think so.” He offered the gun to the smith, who made no move to accept it. Simon’s heart started to race. He’d been on the other side of the counter not that long ago.

  “Back East, that gun cost fifty-six dollars new a little over a year ago. And like I said, it ain’t been fired enough to even count. Couldn’t let it go for a dime less than forty-four.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “I’ll give you thirty dollars for it.” Simon reached into his pocket.

  The smith put up his hand. “Don’t even bother diggin’ it out. Got too much in it for that. Gimme forty and you can ride safe to Wyoming Territory.” He shook his head as though resigned.

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  Simon laid the rifle on the counter. “How much for the primers?”

  “A dollar sixty.”

  Simon dug in his pocket, and took out the correct amount. Laying it on the counter, he picked up the tin of primers, stroked the rifle’s stock once more, and turned to leave.

  “I’m not making a nickel on that rifle at thirty-five,” the smith grumbled.

  Simon waited until he had control of his smile, then turned around. “I’ll need some cartridges, too, and a scabbard,” he said as he unbuttoned his shirt pocket.

  Buell caressed the stock of the new rifle. “And just four years ago you were in big trouble for just shooting my pistol. Now look.” He pushed the lever down, and the action made the ominous mechanical sound of weaponry being readied. He levered the action shut, the imposing hammer remaining at full cock.

  “Load it,” Simon said. “I got three boxes of cartridges.” He groped around in the bean sack and found one. Busting the top loose, he handed Buell a fistful of shells.

  Buell fed them into the side of the rifle. “You go first. It’s yours.” He handed the Winchester to Simon. “Let me go set something up.”

  Running to the river, he found a charred piece of old campfire wood. Propping it up between two rocks, he paced the sixty yards from where Simon stood.

  Simon levered a shell into the chamber and raised the rifle to his shoulder. Squinting across the open “V” of the rear sight, he lined up the silver front sight with the black target and squeezed the trigger. The chunk of wood went skidding across the dirt. He turned to Buell. “Hits right where you aim it. It’s a little heavy in the barrel, but it sure feels good.” He handed it to Buell.

  Buell fired and split the piece of wood in two. Jacking in another round,
he hit the larger piece, worked the lever again, and barely missed the small chunk. “Boy, that’s fast. How many will it hold?” He turned the rifle in his hands admiring it.

  “Sixteen, if you put one in the chamber.” Simon reached for the gun. “Let me try it again.”

  They burned up a box of cartridges chasing the increasingly smaller pieces of wood around the riverbank. Simon knew he was going to like his new rifle.

  CHAPTER 2

  The country had turned to a landscape of long rolling hills. Simon pushed his horse closer to Buell’s. “Have you noticed there are a couple of riders going the same way we are?” He glanced back as he spoke.

  “Nope.” Buell turned in his saddle and looked to the rear.

  “Well, I think I have. Let’s stop just over this next rise and take a leak. I’d like to see if they’re still back there.”

  They climbed off their horses a few minutes later and peed on a couple of weeds, then walked back a little and peered over the ridgeline at their back trail. Ten minutes passed, and a lazily circling hawk was the only thing to break the monotony of the view.

  “How long’s it been since ya spotted ’em?” Buell asked.

  “I thought I spied ’em early this morning and started watching. At that time, they were right behind us. A couple of hours later, I saw them for sure, only this time they were more south of us than behind. And then about two hours ago, I thought I saw ’em again.”

  “That map you got show any towns they might be headin’ for?”

  Simon took the map out of his coat pocket and unfolded it.

  “Nothing between here and Fort Laramie except campsites. They could be heading for the South Platte, but you’d think they’d have rode that trail right out of Platte City.” Simon handed the map to Buell.

  “Don’t make no sense. Let’s ride closer to the river. If they’re headed for Fort Laramie, we’ll let ’em get in front of us. I don’t like ’em behind.” Buell folded up the paper and handed it back. “Let’s sit here a while, and see if we can spot ’em. Maybe we’re just a little skitterish.”

  They sat for over an hour, then got back on the horses and headed west again, angling closer to the river. Both men kept an eye on the horizon, but didn’t see another person the rest of the day. They passed two obvious wagon train campsites, the areas well worn and littered with trash and dozens of fire beds. Neither had any firewood within a mile, so they passed on, but decided to leave the prairie and ride closer to the river. There they found untrampled ground, inaccessible to wagons because of the uneven bluffs and draws. Simon spotted a two-acre cottonwood grove and they headed for it. Seventy-five yards or so from the river and near the center, they found a clearing. Travel weary only four days out of Carlisle, they reined their mounts to one side of it and climbed off.

  Once free of their saddles, the hobbled horses wandered into the trees to browse. Buell started gathering wood from under a lone maple tree. Simon unpacked the food and rolled out his bed before going to the river for a pan of water. When he returned, the fire, sparking and crackling, had a fair start, and Buell hunkered over his bedroll, getting it laid out. “That is one muddy stretch of water,” Simon said as he set the pan carefully on the ground.

  “So I noticed.” Buell stood, arched his back and came over to the fire, now picking up size and spirit. He dropped a few larger branches on it and stepped away. Simon settled down on the ground and leaned back against his saddle to join in Buell’s vigil. Three even larger pieces of wood went on the fire, and Buell folded his long legs to join Simon on the ground.

  The sun dropped below the bluffs and the air cooled rapidly as they watched the fire in silence. When the flames reduced the maple wood to a bed of red-yellow coals, Simon laid two fairly straight pieces of wood side by side across the fiery heat. He placed the coffee pan on top. In a few minutes, steam wafted off the water as Simon busied himself making corn batter. Buell napped.

  Fried corn cakes, beans with bacon, and coffee made a satisfying meal, and Simon proved himself quite adept at camp cooking. In the gathering darkness, he walked to the river with two forks, a pair of tin plates, and the skillet. He soon lost to the trees the reassuring glow of the fire, and deepening shadows hurried his return trip.

  “Dark as the inside of a crow,” Buell said when Simon walked into the firelight. “I could hear where ya were, but I couldn’t see ya.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t used to be uneasy about the dark, but something about being out here, completely alone, gives me the jitters.” Simon put the dishes by the saddlebags and sat down cross-legged next to the fire. “I think seeing those riders got me going.”

  “Steep as it is here, we’d hear ’em comin’. But yer right, it is dark. I’m gonna have a smoke and go to bed.” Buell started building a cigarette.

  “Good idea. I don’t remember getting this tired herding cows with Nathan Greene and the guys.”

  “That’s cuz we sat still most of the time. We’ve covered about eighty miles the last four days and that means a lot of hangin’ on with our legs.” The flare of the flaming twig he drew back from the fire amplified Buell’s steady gaze. Blowing a cloud of smoke skyward, he stood and turned his back to the heat. “I think it might get cold.”

  “Feels like it.” Simon stood. “Let’s drag something big over here and lay it across the fire for tonight.”

  They found a punky deadfall branch on the fringes of the campfire light. It soon started to burn, the heavy bark and damp decaying wood keeping the flame low. Settling down in his bed, Simon struggled out of his boots, folded up his coat for a pillow, and pulled his covers over his chest. He looked up to find Cassiopeia—the familiar “W” put him at ease. How many times had he and Sarah . . . he took a deep breath and let it out slowly before peering across the smoky campfire. “See ya in the mornin’.” Buell didn’t answer.

  Buell sat with his back against the maple tree. He could see the fire glow, but the smoldering cottonwood branch cast scant light over the camp. He’d seen the riders before Simon had, two of them, and they’d been there since Platte City, always about a mile back. They’d appeared one last time just before he and Simon descended to the river. Certain they’d come into camp and try to steal the horses, he’d decided to watch and wait.

  Through the treetops, he scanned the sky until he made out the Big Dipper—well after midnight. The air lay so still he could hear the slow-moving river a hundred yards away. Doubt crept in as his back stiffened up with the cold, and he considered going to the fire to absorb some heat.

  The snap of a breaking branch rippled his scalp and sped his heart. Deer? He breathed softly through his mouth and peered into the woods, keeping his eyes away from the dim firelight. The darkness threw the silence back at him. Fully five minutes later, another sound, almost too soft to be heard—someone breathing. Buell lowered his head to hide his white face. The nasal sound passed a few feet to his right. It amazed him that someone could walk through the trees without making any ground noise. The breathing sound, definitely moving towards the fire, passed out of range before Buell looked up. He could just make out the immobile shape of a man, who appeared to be facing the fire.

  A charge scampered up his spine when he caught movement on the other side of the camp. Another man, barely visible in the starlight, stood motionless directly opposite the first. As Buell stared, the dark shape moved closer to the smoldering fire, angling away from the river in Simon’s direction. As he advanced, the long gun he held chest high became apparent. The nearer man, the Breather, moved the opposite way and toward Buell’s bedroll. He knew then they were not looking for horses.

  The farther man, now more visible in the low firelight, raised his rifle, the dull reflection of firelight on metal winking across the space. It pointed at Simon! Buell raised his pistol, cocked hours ago, and sighted across the camp, trying to line up on something more precise than a dark shadow. Then came the unmistakable crackle of a pistol being cocked—the Breather—followed instantly b
y the double click of a rifle hammer being drawn back. Buell pulled the trigger.

  “Oh!” The grunt came from the far side. Buell, already moving left, saw the Breather turn his way. He fired at the shape, something thudded to the ground, and the form disappeared. Buell stopped behind a tree and listened intently.

  “Buell! Bueeellll!” Simon’s terrorized voice split the silence.

  Rocks rattled—someone scrambling up the slope to his right. And then came a splintering of wood and a gasp of pain from across the camp, followed by the sound of someone tearing through underbrush and hanging branches. Buell remained pressed against the tree and listened, as both sounds became fainter.

  A minute or two passed, then he heard horses being spurred urgently, and as they sped out of earshot, he peeked around the tree at the camp. Nothing moved. He crept up on Simon’s form, looking for the Winchester. He spotted it, angled over a saddle that lay off to one side. He let out his breath when he’d moved close enough to make out Simon’s form, head covered and knees drawn up tight to his chest.

  “Simon? You okay?”

  Slowly the scrunched form started to straighten out. “Buell?” Simon whispered. “That you?”

  “Yeah. I think our visitors are gone. You all right?”

  Simon pushed the canvas cover off and sat up. “Yeah. Scared shitless, but I’m okay. What the hell happened?”

  “Those two fellas followin’ us. I thought they might try to get our horses so I waited up for ’em. Looked like they wanted more’n the horses. One of ’em had his rifle pointed right at you. When he cocked it, I shot at him.”

  “Did ya hit him?” Simon stood.

  “I think so. Heard him grunt, and he took off. The other fella ran up the hill. I got a shot at him, too, but I don’t think I hit ’im. Nothing to shoot at but a shadow. Heard somethin’ hit the ground, or else he kicked somethin’. Anyhow, he took off. You hear the horses?”