“How much do I owe you for those cigars?”
“Well, Mister Mayor, I’m not quite sure,” Jake said. “Scotty’s making a delivery, and there was no price on the box. You remember how much you’ve been paying?”
“Well, to tell the truth,”—and he wasn’t—“I don’t recall. Just started smoking these Wheelings a short time ago.”
“I see. Well, ten cigars . . . call it two bits even.”
“That’s reasonable.” Mayor Davis’s face lit up as he also lit up a cigar after biting off the end of it, and put the money on the counter.
“Need any matches, Mister Mayor?”
“No, thanks. Say, I . . . uh . . . understand that Colonel Crook had a meeting with Colorados.”
“Correct.”
“And before that, the colonel talked to your brother.”
Jake nodded and pointed to a chair. “Right over there.”
“You know what they talked about?”
Jake nodded again, then leaned in and whispered confidentially, “Mister Mayor, can you keep a secret?”
The mayor also nodded, moved even closer to Jake, and whispered even more confidentially, “Yes, I can.”
“So can I,” Jake answered softly, then smiled and spoke in a normal tone. “But this is no secret. Everybody’s gonna know pretty soon.”
“Know what?”
“That there’s gonna be a truce, thanks to my brother, the peacemaker. Ain’t that right, Ike?”
Ike Silver had come down the stairs and heard part of the exchange. “That’s not the way it happened, but it looks like it’s happening.”
“A truce?” The mayor was obviously amazed.
“Did I hear somebody say truce?” Oliver Knight had rushed in through the open door and hastened toward Ike. “There’re rumors flapping all over town that Crook and Colorados had a powwow up in Spanish Flats and signed a treaty. Big medicine!”
“Well,” Ike said, “far as I know they didn’t sign any treaty, but did come to an understanding.”
“To do what?” Mayor John Davis asked.
“What not to do,” Ike said.
“What do you mean?” the mayor inquired.
“It’s what they mean. Not to shoot at each other for the time being ’til they can work something out officially.”
Knight said excitedly, “I’ve got to know more than that for the next edition . . . maybe get out an extra—”
“Then I’d suggest you ride out and talk to Colonel Crook,” Ike said.
“I’m going to do just that.”
“Hold on, Mister Silver,” the mayor said. “Is it part of this so-called ‘understanding’ that the stage will be operating? The supply wagons? And people can go about their business without being attacked by Apaches?”
“I’d say that’s a reasonable assumption.”
“My God! That’s hard to believe.”
“Crook and Colorados believe it.” Ike smiled.
“That’s . . . fantastic! I’ve got to call a meeting of the city council and . . . and . . . well, I’ll see you later.”
Mayor John Davis took a deep puff from his cigar and trotted toward the door.
“I’m sure His Honor is going to take credit,” Knight said, looking out at the departing mayor, “for bringing peace to Prescott and the entire Territory. By the way,”—Knight removed a folded copy of a newspaper from his coat pocket—“here’s the edition of the Independent with that story about you on the front page. Sorry I didn’t have space to say more—’course, it’s out of date by now, anyhow. Well, now that I don’t have to worry about Apaches, guess I’ll ride out to Fort Whipple and talk turkey with Colonel Crook.”
Oliver Knight placed the copy of the Independent on the counter and left.
Jake picked up the paper and put on his spectacles.
“Listen to this, Ike.”
SILVER STRIKE IN PRESCOTT
Isaac “Big Ike” Silver, on his first day in Prescott, took on two drunken locals known as the Keeler brothers, by shooting whiskey bottles out of their grasp while they were firing their forty-fours in front of his store, which also serves as home for him, his two young sons, and his brother.
When the Keelers sobered up, they returned to the scene of the dust-up and apologized for their misconduct. First time in anybody’s recollection that the Keelers were ever reasonably sober or ever contrite. Ike Silver was born in Russia, educated in England, served with distinction as an officer of the U.S. Army at Shiloh in the late unpleasantness between the states and has settled in Prescott, where he will operate a general store and start a freight line in competition with the freighting monopoly currently extant in the Territory. Welcome, Big Ike.
“How do you like that, brother?”
“How do you think Mister Lessur is going to like it?”
“Who cares? I’m not worried about him. Are we?”
“Well, I don’t know how worried he is about us, with just a few patched-up wagons and no contracts to supply the army. . . .”
“Why don’t you talk to your friend the colonel about that?”
“I intend to.”
“Good.”
“But there’s somebody else I’ve got to talk to first.”
“How’s it going?”
Ike Silver entered the stable, where Ben Brown was working on a wheel.
“Most of the wagons are in pretty good shape, Mister Silver. Ought to be finished by the end of the week.”
“That’s just fine. Appreciate your help . . . and I do want to thank you for your help with those Apaches.”
“Didn’t have much choice.” For the first time, Brown smiled at Ike. “That Quemada—you sure knocked the wind outta his bellows.”
“Speaking of that . . . remember before Quemada and his pals jumped us, there was something I wanted to talk to you about?”
“Well, there don’t seem to be any Apaches about,”—Ike glanced around the stable—“so . . .”
“So?”
“Rumor has it—in fact, it’s stated right here in the current edition of The Prescott Independent,”—Ike pulled the newspaper out of his back pocket—“that I’m starting up a freight line here in the Territory.”
“Seems to me I did hear mention of somethin’ like that.” There was more than a touch of humor in Ben’s voice.
“Look here, why don’t you forget about moving on . . . about sharecropping?”
Ben stiffened.
“Did Melena . . . ?”
“Mister Brown, I want to make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“You’ll have regular hours . . . probably work eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, thirty, thirty-one days a month.”
“Sounds right so far.”
“I need somebody to keep these wagons rolling. To help freight the goods from La Paz to the mine . . . to the army . . . to anyplace. You’ll get twenty-five percent of the profits . . . if there are any profits,”—Ike pointed to the ceiling—“. . . the roof over your head that you fixed, ’til we can find better accommodations, and all the victuals that Melena can cook for you and Benjie. That’s my offer. Deal?”
“Would you come with me for just a minute, Mister Silver?”
Ike nodded and followed Ben into the kitchen. “Melena.”
Melena turned from the sink. “What is it, Ben?”
“Mister Silver has asked us to stay . . . run the freight line . . .”
“Not run it,” Ike said. “Be partners.
”“What do you think, Melena?” Ben asked.
Melena managed a mock shrug. “Up to you, Ben, but I’m sure Benjie would like to stay here and go to school with Jed and Obie . . . and . . .”
“I asked for an answer from you, Melena.” ”
“My answer is . . . ‘wither thou goest.’
“All right, then . . .” He turned to Ike and extended his hand.
Ike took it and they shook.
“Deal . . . Ben.”
“Deal . . . Ike.”
Melena could barely keep from quivering with long-forgotten contentment.
Sister Bonney rushed into the store from the street.
“Ike, I heard the marvelous news about the treaty and the part you played—”
“Truce, Sister, not treaty. And I didn’t play much of a part.”
“Truce, treaty, what’s the difference?”
“We’ll find out. A lot depends on Colonel Crook and Colorados.”
“It’ll work out, I know it will. Ike, I have to ask you something. How soon can I meet with Colorados and the other Indians about sending their children to school?”
“Well, I think that’s a little premature, Sister. There are one or two other things that have to be worked out first. . . .”
“Yes, I know, but we mustn’t forget the children. Will you talk to Colorados as soon as you can?”
“I’ll do what I can when I can, Sister, but in the meanwhile, you’ll be glad to know that you’ll have at least one more student in your school.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Benjie Brown. Ben and Melena have decided to stay here with us.”
“That’s grand . . . and don’t tell me you didn’t play a part in that either.”
“The important part is, they’re staying.”
“God bless you, Big Ike.”
The streets of Prescott were stirring, then swirling with activity as word spread and citizens began to celebrate the truce. For some time, Prescott and its inhabitants had lived in near isolation and susceptibility. Ranchers kept their rifles loaded and at the ready; the stage line was shut down except when it could obtain an army escort; supplies from La Paz, when they did arrive via Lessur Freighting, skyrocketed in price. The blame, with considerable justification, fell on Apache marauders who struck from their hidden lairs, stealing horses, guns, ammunition, cattle and sometimes women to be traded to Comancheros who would sell them in bondage below the border.
Hate hung thick as paste in the Territory. Among the whites, hate for the Indians, who were looked upon as savages knowing no mercy; among the Indians, hate for the whites, intruders who despoiled an ancient culture and subjugated once proud hunters and warriors and turned them into subordinates, dependant on the largesse of invaders.
And there was even hate among the whites for other whites. Before and during the Civil War, Prescott and the Arizona Territory were a hotbed of Confederate sympathizers. As many Arizonians entered that war on the side of the South as did volunteers for the Union forces. And those Southern sympathizers who survived and returned still bore the residual resentment toward loyalist Arizonians and the U.S. Army forces now under the command of Colonel Crook at Fort Whipple and other posts in the Territory.
But for the time being, much of that hate and resentment, if not forgotten, was set aside in the hope that some semblance of normalcy and even prosperity would return to what had been a cauldron of conflict.
All that was becoming evident on the streets and businesses of Prescott with the prospect of peace and industry—if the truce held. The store, the bank, the barbershop and the saloons along Whiskey Row all reflected a renewed vigor and vitality amidst citizens who had lived in a limbo of uncertainty.
There were more than enough customers to keep Jake and Scotty busy at the store as Ike walked out of the stable.
“Hey, Big Ike, look here!”
Claude Keeler held up a copy of The Prescott Independent as his brother Charlie stood at his side.
“Did you see what that fella at the newspaper wrote right on the front page?” Charlie said.
“I did.”
“Somebody just read it to us.” Claude grinned.
“We got our name in the paper right next to yours,” Charlie added. “We never figured that’d ever happen unless we croaked. Ain’t that somethin’?”
“Yeah, that’s something, all right.”
“But what does that one word mean? We didn’t want to ask the fella who read it to us,” Claude said.
“What word?”
Claude pointed.
“That’s it. Con . . . trite. What’s that mean, Big Ike?”
“It means peaceable.”
“Peaceable?” Claude looked at his brother. “Hear that, Charlie? Peaceable. I’ll be damned!”
“We were just goin’ over to your store to pick up some goods,” Charlie said.
“Hope you find what you need.”
“We will.” Claude nodded, still grinning. “And thanks for gettin’ our name in the newspaper, Big Ike.”
“You’re welcome. See you later, fellas.”
“You bet. Con . . . trite.” Claude folded the newspaper. “How about that!”
“Am I to understand, Colonel Crook, that if we come across armed Apaches, we are not to confiscate their weapons?”
Captain Frank Bourke, along with Lieutenants Jud Gibbs and William Williams, stood in front of the desk where Colonel Crook sat lighting a cigar.
“You officers are to understand and make sure every trooper who is under my command understands that part of my agreement with Colorados—and you were there at Spanish Flats when I made that agreement, Captain—is that he and his men are not to lay down their arms. They are to keep whatever arms and ammunition, which is damn little, currently in their possession.”
“Supposing we are attacked with those arms, sir, though damn little they may be?”
“I’m supposing that you won’t be, but if you are fired upon first, you will, of course, fire back with accuracy and alacrity.”
“I see, sir.”
“See this too, all of you officers. Under no circumstances are you to provoke or initiate aggression. Understood, by all of you?”
“Yes, sir,” the three officers replied in unison.
“Good. Captain, deliver the cattle and supplies to Spanish Flats and report back to me.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Questions, Captain?”
“One question, sir.”
“What is it?”
“Do you mind if I don’t speak to any Apache . . . unless he speaks first?”
“That’ll be all, Captain, gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir,” the officers replied, again in unison.
The sun had fallen like a dying moth.
After their usual prayers and nightly altercation, Jed and Obie were in bed.
“They never let the sun set without a quarrel,” Jake said to Ike as the two of them walked down the stairs.
“You know who they remind me of?” Ike smiled.
“Us.” Jake nodded. “The difference is that I was always in the right.”
“Sure you were.”
“And still am.”
“Of course. Think I’ll walk over to the Emporium.”
“Don’t play poker.”
“I won’t—especially with the proprietress. Want to come along?”
“No, I got some bookkeeping to do.”
“See you later.”
Jake pointed to the gun and gun belt on Ike’s desk.
“Aren’t you going to take along your hardware?”
“No. I think I’ll travel light tonight.”
Francine, who sometimes entertained downstairs as well as upstairs, had finished her rendition of “Lorena,” and the piano player had segued into a rendition of “Shenandoah” as Francine walked up the staircase escorted by a fellow who looked like a Bible salesman, but who had carnal cravings that were about to be satisfied.
The Emporium was at near capacity with drinkers, smokers and card players—Oliver Knight, the sign painter Tom Bixby, the barber undertaker Antonio Gillardi, and sundry citizens including Rupert Lessur, at his usual table with his usual pile of winnings. Belinda Millay stood behind him watching him win again.
Ike entered through the bat wings, stood for a moment, then walked toward the bar, where Binky in full voice was in the midst of one of his reminiscences for those who cared to listen and even for those who didn’t.
“I was touring the Welsh provinces in a second-rate company of players, managed by and starring Lord and Lady Ben Greet. Ben Greet was concluding his curtain speech after our performance of Macbeth with Lady Ben Greet as Lady Macbeth and himself in the title role. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we thank you for your generous applause, and I am pleased to announce that tomorrow evening the Ben Greet players will perform Shakespeare’s immortal love story Romeo and Juliet. I shall essay the role of Romeo, and the part of Juliet will be performed by Lady Ben Greet.’ At that, someone in the audience hollered out ‘Lady Ben Greet is a dirty whore!’ Ben Greet summoned up his full stature and in stentorian tone responded, ‘Nevertheless . . . the part of Juliet will be performed by Lady Ben Greet.’”
Binky removed his bowler, bowed and held up an empty glass.
“Buy you a drink, Binky?” Ike said.
“I would enjoy a libation, sir, and your company.” Binky replaced the bowler. “Not necessarily in that order. Henry!’
“Ike Silver!” The bat wings had flown open and he stood just inside—an imposing man, well above six feet, a square-jawed face carved out of granite with a grim mouth and steel-gray eyes that matched the uniform he wore—the Confederate uniform of a major, complete with sash, sidearm, and sheathed sword. There was one thing about him that was incomplete—his left arm was missing.
The sleeve was pinned up just above where his elbow would have been. In his right hand he held a copy of The Prescott Independent.
“Ike Silver,” he repeated.
The Emporium was smothered by silence . . . and stillness. Nobody moved. Except the imposing man in uniform. He took a step forward.
“Where is Ike Silver?”
“I’m here.”
“According to this article,”—the man held up the newspaper—“you were at Shiloh.”
“I was.”
“So was I. Major Montgomery Rawlins, Third Texas. It says here that you served with distinction at Shiloh.”
Ike said nothing.
“How did you distinguish yourself?”
Silence.
“I asked, how did you serve with distinction?”
Ike shrugged. “I survived. We lost many brave comrades on both sides.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to be sorrier.”
“Major, what do you want?”
Major Montgomery Rawlins dropped the newspaper and drew his sword. “Satisfaction.”