Laramie Page 9

  “It’s all right. I didn’t feel like I was in danger. I was raised waiting tables in my father’s restaurant in Milwaukee. I handled one like that a couple of times a week. I’m just sorry he had to get stuck. I tried to hit where he was solid.”

  “He got what he deserved. And again, I apologize.” T. P. looked at Zahn. “Did you find out what you needed to know, mister? My name’s Triffet; folks call me T. P.” He stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Zahn Tapola and this is my wife Lori. We’re from Wisconsin. The telegrapher said he gave the army a message this morning about a group that left Fort Kearney yesterday. Twelve wagons. We should be able to join with them when they get here.”

  “That’s good to hear. It’s sure not like it was fifteen years ago. They came through here all summer long—steady stream. What did you do back home?”

  “I’m a sawyer.”

  “Did you say you worked in a restaurant?” T. P. asked Lori.

  “Yes. My family owns one. I’ve cooked, served tables, washed dishes, whatever needed doing, I did it.”

  “Odd how things like this happen, but there is a . . . well . . . it’s almost a restaurant. Young fella showed up year before last and is running a place west of here. It was a . . . uh, a saloon and . . . uh—”

  “You’re talking about a roadhouse,” Zahn said. “We’ve seen dozens of them.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. But Simon, that’s the youngster’s name, he’s changing it into a nicer place. Anyway, what I was gettin’ at is, he needs a person that can plan menus and cook. Interested?”

  “Not really,” Zahn said. “I don’t want her workin’. We’ll wait around for that group that’s comin’ and then get on to Oregon. It’s what we planned.”

  “Okay. I told ’em I’d keep my ears open. Now, can I get ya anything while you’re in here?”

  “Not a lot that we need. Her father runnin’ an eating house, we got enough food to last us easily. No, we’ll just settle down by the river and wait. Much obliged though.”

  Skinny and Shorty hurried out the door and scurried to the blacksmith shop just west of the store.

  “Take a look and see if it’s bad, Rank. It hurts like hell,” Shorty whined as he unbuttoned his tunic.

  Skinny waited until Shorty had undone his underwear top, and then folded it back, off his shoulder.

  “It ain’t that bad. Ya got a little fatty-lookin’ stuff poochin’ out, but it ain’t bleedin’ much. We’ll have Barrschott take a look at it. He’ll know if ya have to see the doc. Dirty bitch, she coulda poked ya through the lung.”

  Shorty, with a wince and a moan, shrugged back into his underwear. “She had no call to do that. Shit, all she had to do was say no.”

  Skinny turned and looked at the six mules, heads down, patiently awaiting their orders. His eyes moved back to the wagon, then he turned again and looked at the blacksmith’s forge. “Let’s teach ’em a lesson.” He glanced at the sutler’s store. “Grab that little nail bucket there and that old horse blanket.”

  Moments later they hurried across the compound in search of Sergeant Barrschott.

  Zahn eased the mules to a stop on a level piece of ground about three hundred feet from the river.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to skid a stick or two in here for firewood,” he said as he surveyed the treeless riverbank. “Sure a nice-lookin’ place, though. Doesn’t that breeze feel good? Bet that comes all the way from Oregon.”

  “Just get this thing stopped. I’m ready to sit and look at the same place two days in a row,” Lori said and started to get up.

  “Whoa, mule.” He set the brake and relaxed the reins. “Do you smell something burning?” Zahn sniffed the air. “Don’t smell like wood.” He stood and looked around.

  “I smell it,” Lori said and started to climb down the wheel. “Zahn!” she screamed, looking toward the rear. “It’s the wagon.”

  Zahn leaped clear of the driver’s box and landed in a heap. Scrambling to his feet, he raced to the end of the wagon box, and clawed at the ropes holding the canvas ends shut. The knots had been altered and pulled tight. He dug his knife from his pocket, the smoke now seeping through small gaps in the canvas. Just as he got the blade open, the right side of the white cover made a soft wooof sound and the rear third was burning halfway to the top. Slashing at the ropes, he cut through, and the ends came loose. He threw the canvas back to be met by a roiling cloud of white smoke tinged with flickering yellow. He raced to the front of the wagon and climbed back aboard.

  “Get out of the way, Lori,” he shouted as he kicked loose the brake. “I’m gonna drive into the river. Git up, mule,” he hollered. “Git up! Gee mule, gee. Git around.”

  Heaving hard on the right reins as the mules responded with a lunge, he swung them around, and they headed straight for the riverbank, now at a gallop. The slope was mercifully gentle, and the six mules crashed into the belly-deep water.

  “Whoa,” Zahn hollered as the lead pair reached the far side. “Whoa.”

  He hauled hard on the reins, and tromped the brake with his foot, one action leveraged against the other.

  “Gawdammit,” he swore when the water only reached the mule’s chests. He scrambled over the front of the wagon. “Easy mule, easy,” he crooned. “Now back, back. Whoa. Now easy.”

  Hanging onto the harness, he walked the two shafts between the mules until he reached the rear of the lead pair. Balanced precariously between the heads of the middle set of animals and murmuring softly to them, he unhooked the leaders. Then he let go the neck yoke on the swing pair. The falling tongue dropped free and one front end sank to the stream bottom. He did the same for the middle pair, working his way back to the wagon where he uncoupled the wheel team. The flames were now intense as the canvas flared in the breeze and he hunkered on the wagon tongue.

  Gathering the reins in hand, he hollered. “Git’up mule.” Free of the heavy pulling traces, the powerful animals charged up the bank and jerked him off his perch. He fell full length in the water to be pulled facedown toward the shore. When he hit the bank, the drag on the reins stopped the well-trained team. He sat up and looked back across the river. Lori, hands to her face, sat down on the bank, and together, they watched as their wagon burned down to the floor.

  Two soldiers on horseback slid to a stop beside Lori. “Is anyone on the wagon?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, sir. My husband is over there with the team,” Lori said, pointing across the river.

  “Trooper, cross over and escort the man to the bridge with his team. I’ll take the lady back to the fort.”

  “Right, Sarge,” the man said and plunged his horse into the river and crossed to Zahn.

  “Give me your hand, ma’am, and put your foot in the stirrup.”

  “Will the wagon not float away?” Lori asked. “It has all his tools.”

  “It’ll be all right till I can get a squad out here to tow it back to the bank.” He bent over and reached for her. She swung up behind him, straddling the horse.

  “How did that happen? Have you been carrying fire?”

  “No, we never do. I don’t understand it. What are we going to do? Everything we own is on the load.”

  “Can’t say, ma’am. I’ll get you back to the sutler. He has at times arranged for folks to stay a bit.”

  He turned the horse and walked it slowly back to the fort.

  Sergeant Barrschott sat at his desk, the two troopers at attention in front of it. Furious, he looked directly at Trooper Pettit.

  “I talked to T. P., you little maggot. I know what happened in the store, and you didn’t back into no nail. And just based on what I know now, I can guarantee both of ya thirty days in the guardhouse.” He turned his attention to the other man. “So, Rankin, I’m gonna ask ya one more time. Did you have anything to do with setting the torch to their wagon?” Barrschott glared at the two troopers.

  “I already told ya, no. We was havin’ a little fun with her, that’s all.”


  “Yeah, she enjoyed it so much she stabbed Pettit with a pair of shears. Don’t feed me no shit about who’s the victim here. I’ve a good notion to let that timberman knock that crooked jaw of yours straight. You’re both a disgrace to the uniform. We’ll see Lieutenant Fu—Maupin in the morning about your little fete. And I’ll have a look at that wagon before he sees ya. God help you, both of you, if I see somethin’ that don’t add up. Now get the hell out of here and you’re confined to barracks. Corporal!”

  The two-striper appeared immediately.

  “Escort these two pieces of coyote shit to quarters, and see they stay there till mornin’. Get ’em some hardtack for supper.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. C’mon, you two.”

  Zahn and Barrschott watched as the soldiers towed the charred hulk to the blacksmith’s shop, slipped their ropes, and rode away.

  “Looks like you have all the singletrees and the falling tongue in back,” Barrschott said as he surveyed the burned wreck. “Guess the wheels were just wet enough to not burn.”

  “At least I have that,” Zahn said. “And my tools look like they made it too.” He levered his body onto the charred bed. Reaching down, he caught the end of an enormous two-man saw and lifted it. “The handle’s gone but the blade looks just fine. That ax looks good too.” He hefted the double-bitted tool. “The handle’s nice and brown, but it isn’t hurt.”

  “Not much, but I guess everything counts. Do you see anything unusual?”

  “Like what?” Zahn studied the charred mess. “The trunk behind the seat didn’t go entirely. And this was the dresser. That looks like . . . that ain’t mine.” Zahn reached down and picked up a small bucket. “I’ve never seen this.”

  “Let me have it,” Barrschott said. He walked into the blacksmith shop and came back in less than a minute.

  “Dirty little sonsabitches. Hodges says that bucket is his. It’s for holding his shoe nails. Always sets by the forge, and it was gone.”

  “By the forge? You mean they filled it with coals and set it in amongst my goods?”

  “Looks like it. Can’t say how sorry I am, Mister Tapola. There’s not a lot I can do about compensation. They don’t make enough in five years to pay off what they ruined for ya. But they will be punished, I promise. Bastards . . . yellow-bellied, pot-lickin’ motherless little bastards. I’ll let ya know what the lieutenant decides. Did the sutler find ya some place to stay?”

  “Only for last night. I’ll have to see about something else today. And thanks for helpin’.”

  Simon and Twiggs sat sharing the morning at one of the tables when Spud raised his head, woofed once, then laid it back down. A minute later the door opened and two people walked in. Surprised at the early arrival of customers, Simon looked the man over closely. Not overly tall, his shoulders were wide, and the loose flannel shirt could not hide his enormous upper arms. His sandy hair refused to stay under the cloth cap that sat slightly crooked on his head. The woman standing beside him wore a simple pale-blue gingham dress and a short coat. Her light-brown hair hung loose. The man looked around the saloon, and finally spotted the two of them by the stove. He snatched off his hat and approached the table.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Simon Steele.”

  “That would be me.” Simon looked at Spud. “Quiet,” he almost whispered, then stood and extended his hand.

  The man took it. “My name is Zahn Tapola, and Mister Triffet at the store said you might have a room me and my missus might rent for a while. And maybe some work.”

  “We’re not exactly a hotel you understand? Uh . . . did T. P. . . . er, Mister Triffet tell you what kind of place we, I . . .” Simon glanced across the room at the woman standing just inside the door, and then looked at Twiggs in desperation.

  “We are a roadhouse,” Twiggs said. “Our rooms are usually only rented by the night, sometimes by the hour. Understand? I’m Maxwell Twiggs.” He stood and put his hand out.

  “Oh.” Zahn’s smile disappeared. He fumbled his hat into one hand, and grasped Twiggs’s with the other.

  “Were it just you, I could see no problem, but I’m afraid your wife could be uncomfortable. Do you see my problem?” Simon asked, his voice again steady.

  “Don’t be concerned about my sensibilities, sir.” Lori walked up to the table and looked Simon directly in the eye. “I was raised to do what had to be done. We lost our wagon yesterday afternoon in a fire, and we need a place to stay till we figger out what we’re going to do. I know what an evening lady is. Everybody has to make a living.” She folded her arms across her chest and half cocked her head.

  Simon started to chuckle, at first a low sound as he struggled to keep it private. Then, its volume rose, and soon he was laughing out loud. He put up his hand in supplication. “Please, I’m not laughing at you, really I’m not.” He stifled the laugh, puffing air between his fingers.

  Twiggs looked at Simon, his eyebrows raised, his face a full-blown question mark.

  “That tilt of your head and the crossed arms,” Simon said. “I’ve seen my mother do that to my father a hundred times, and I saw the same result a hundred times.” He started to chuckle again. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. Poor Pa.”

  “So you know I’m serious,” Lori said.

  “Oh, no doubt. And we will think of something to accommodate you, Missus Tar . . . poli?”

  “Tapola, Lori Tapola.”

  “And you mentioned work,” Simon said looking at Zahn. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a lumber sawyer and timberman. I can also handle a square and a hammer if you need something built rough. I’m not a carpenter, but I can build you a corral shed or a barn.”

  “Hmm. And you, Missus Tapola. Are you interested in working . . . oh, damn, I mean . . . excuse the cuss . . . I mean—” Simon looked at Twiggs again.

  Twiggs’s brow wrinkled, and he shook his head slowly. “You’re in it, you get out of it.”

  “Ooof. Of course I didn’t mean what you thought I was going . . . aw, I didn’t mean you would do what . . .” Simon felt himself slowly dissolving with embarrassment.

  “Mister Steele, I’m happily married to a man I love. I understand from Mister Triffet that you’re looking for a cook. I worked in my father’s restaurant forever. I can prepare single meals, group dinners or run a full eatery. I could also do laundry, scrub floors, even serve drinks at the tables.”

  “Now wait a minute, Lori, I ain’t havin’ you working in the saloon. We talked about cookin’, that’s all.” Zahn put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “We’ll do what we need to do.” Again the cocked head and crossed arms.

  Simon smiled. “We haven’t had breakfast yet. Have you?”

  “Some rusk and a cup of coffee. Everything else was burned up,” Lori said.

  “We have a full kitchen right through that door. I want you to go in there and cook breakfast for four. What you make is your choice. Sound fair?”

  Lori was already headed for the kitchen, tugging at her coat.

  Right then, the front door opened again and Buell stepped in.

  “Make that breakfast for six,” Simon said. He grinned at his friend. “Your toughest customer just arrived.”

  Lori glanced at Buell and nodded her head as she pushed through the door.

  “Mornin’ Buell,” Twiggs said.

  “Says you,” Buell grumped. “I’ve gotta learn to avoid those late card games with Amos and Rosie.” He looked at Zahn.

  “Buell, I’d like to introduce Mister Zahn Tapola. Mister Tapola, Buell Ma—Lacey.”

  “I like to be called Zahn.” Zahn extended his hand.

  “I gather that’s your wagon out front, or what’s left of one?” Buell asked as he stepped around the table to an empty chair.

  “Yes. Got burned up. Some crazy soldier named Rankin put a bucket of charcoal in amongst our stuff. I managed to get it to the river, or we would have lost it all.”

  “Rankin, that little bastard. I had a run-in
with him some time back. Wouldn’t leave the girls alone. Had to bust his chops.”

  “That explains his mouth being messed up, won’t shut straight,” Zahn said.

  “Yeah, I know. Anyhow, they call me Buell. Last name’s Mace, but most know me as Lacey. Started when . . . Oh never mind, don’t matter.” Buell looked at Simon.

  “You started it,” Simon said, “so don’t give me that nobody-understands-me look.” He pushed a chair out with his toe. “Please, sit down, Mister Tapola.”

  “I was goin’ to get us some more coffee. Would you drink a cup, Zahn?” Twiggs asked.

  “Thanks, I would.”

  “You go without asking, Buell. Simon?”

  “Why not?”

  Twiggs disappeared through the kitchen door, and Buell sat at the table.

  “Might have found us a cook,” Simon said. “And a solution to something else I’ve been thinking about.”

  Buell rolled his eyes. “I don’t even wanna guess.”

  “Mister Tapola, you said you could build a barn?”

  “True, and I’m a lot more comfortable with Zahn, Mister Steele.”

  “All right.” He tilted his head to one side to let Twiggs reach past and set four cups of coffee on the table. “Thanks, Max.”

  “So what do we need a barn for?” Buell asked.

  “We don’t,” Simon said.

  “Here we go.” Buell slumped in his chair, coffee cup held on his chest with two hands.

  “If you can build a barn, you can build a small cabin. All one-inch material except the roof, which we’ll shingle. Twelve by twenty feet, two rooms with one door and two windows. I’ll hire out the siding and shingles, door and window trim, and the interior finish. Could you do it?” he asked Zahn.

  “Yeah, sure. That’s all rough work. Set on pillar and beams, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. I’ll also hire the stonework out.”

  Zahn nodded his head, and Twiggs pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  “Now the interesting question. Could you rough saw all the material if I could show you where the trees are?”

  “If I had a man to help, yeah, except for the shingles and siding. You need a mill for that.”