The Trailsman #305

Fargo had been to Fort Laramie a number of times in the course of his travels across the West. It wasn’t exactly a fort because there was no stockade enclosing it. One had been planned, or so Fargo had heard, but the government was short of money at the time it was to be built, so it never got done.

Fargo sat astride the big Ovaro stallion he rode and looked down the trail ahead of him. The Laramie River flowed behind the fort, and the Trailsman saw the sun reflect off its surface. He saw the two-story officers’ quarters with its whitewashed walls, long balcony, and outside staircase, the soldiers’ barracks, the stables, and the tall flagpole.

Outside the official perimeter of the fort, but still within its protection, were other buildings: a couple of saloons, a sutler’s store, and two other stores. The sutler dealt mostly with the soldiers, and the other storekeepers were there hoping to make a profit off the pilgrims who came through in the wagon trains.

The saloon owners would make a profit off anyone they could. The soldiers did most of their drinking on the post, but there were plenty of thirsty pilgrims, and not a few even thirstier Indians.

There were several tepees near the fort, as a few Indians always gathered around a fort, not for protection but for other reasons, including the saloons.

The saloons welcomed anybody with the money to buy a drink: cutthroats, cardsharpers, thieves, and killers, as well as the trappers, traders, and pilgrims. Even the Indians were welcomed as customers, though they wouldn’t be allowed to drink inside the building. Fargo was a little saddened at the thought. For some Indians he’d known, drinking liquor was the same as drinking poison, but that didn’t stop them.

Fargo flicked the reins, and the Ovaro moved forward. Fargo knew he’d better report to the commanding officer, a colonel whose name was Alexander. Alexander was a good man, and Fargo had scouted for him once or twice. They weren’t exactly friends, but they trusted each other.

Colonel Alexander wasn’t a large man, nowhere near as tall as Fargo, but he had a presence that let you know he wasn’t anybody to be trifled with.

“Good afternoon, Fargo,” he said, standing as the Trailsman walked into his office. “Haven’t seen you around these parts for a while.”

Alexander sat down and motioned for Fargo to take one of the wooden chairs across from the desk.

“You know how it is,” Alexander said. “Between the Crow and the Sioux, there’s always something for us to attend to.”

Fargo waited for him to mention the stage robberies. When he didn’t, the Trailsman said, “What about the robberies on the mail run?”

“He’s been in contact with me, asking me to send a patrol out with his mail coaches. I haven’t been able to spare the men except for a time or two, and nothing happened on those occasions.”

“That’s true enough,” Alexander said. “If I had another fifty men, I might be able to do that.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not working for Ferriday, are you?”

Fargo wasn’t surprised that Alexander had figured it out so quickly. The colonel hadn’t achieved his rank because he was stupid.

Alexander thought that over. “What you do out here’s your own business. Whatever it is, you don’t have any official standing, so I’m not obliged to help you.”

Fargo said he understood that and added, “Not that I’m doing anything along the lines you’re thinking.”

“You always did play your cards close to the vest, Fargo, and that’s a good thing. Keeps people from knowing too much about your business. Well, you do what you please, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my work here.”

The name of the Red Dog Saloon was scrawled in charcoal on a board outside, which gave people stopping by a pretty good idea of the quality of the liquor it served and the kind of people to be found inside. Fargo had been there before, so he already had a pretty good idea.

The place was convenient to the stage stop, practically right next door, so Fargo thought it would be a good place to start looking into things for Ferriday.

Fargo went inside and inhaled the familiar smells of tobacco smoke and beer. He wasn’t expecting to find anything out of the ordinary, so he was surprised when he saw the young woman sitting at one of the tables. She had flame red hair, a pretty, heart-shaped face, and a light dusting of freckles across her nose. She was wearing men’s denim pants and a work shirt, but what he could see of her figure was as enticing as her face and hair. Maybe even more enticing.

She made the two faded whores who frequented the saloon look like exactly what they were. They sat at a table near the silent old upright piano, looking gloomy and lonesome. The redhead wasn’t lonesome at all. Five men were crowded around the table with her, and three or four others were standing as close by as they could.

Fargo couldn’t blame the soiled doves if they were a little bit jealous, and he was suddenly glad he’d accepted Ferriday’s job. He moved to the bar, where there was plenty of room. Nearly everyone was trying to get near the redhead. A couple of older men who didn’t seem interested in her were at the bar, and Fargo stood between them to order a whiskey.

“Haven’t been around these parts lately.” He nodded toward the young woman. “Your customers have gotten a lot better looking since the last time I came by.”

“She’s been good for business,” the bartender said before moving away to serve another customer.

Fargo turned his head slightly for a look. The man was short and stout, and dirty white hair hung out from under his hat. He hadn’t seen soap and water for a while. A long while. “I got my sights on her already.”

“You and ever’body else in this godforsaken place,” said the man on the right. He was taller and cleaner than the other man, but not by much in either case. “I been comin’ in here for three weeks now, hoping for a chance with one of them Coleman sisters, and all I’ve got is drunk.”

“That’s right. The one there’s Faith. There’s three more of ’em, and each one’s prettier than the other one. They come in now and then, and the men flock around ’em like bees after a flower.” He looked at Fargo with rheumy eyes. “You wouldn’t buy a man a drink, would you?”

“I figgered that. My name’s Johnny Cobb. I seen you in here once before. You got into a fight that time.”

“You can find one if you want it,” said the man on the left. “Just try shoving into a seat at the table where that gal is.”

“Mighty fine,” he said, which proved to Fargo that the whiskey had killed his sense of taste. “You don’t want to be shovin’ in. Old Farley over there tried it once. Got his ass kicked.”

“She sure as hell did,” Farley said. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed by it. “Those Coleman sisters is tough.”

“Then I’ll have another one, myself,” Cobb said, and tossed down what was left in his glass.

“Samson Coleman,” Cobb said. He looked at Fargo. “You’re a big one, but Samson’s taller’n you, and wider into the bargain. You ever see a grizzly rare up on its hind legs?”

Cobb nodded. “Figgered you had. Well, then, if you’ve seen that, you pretty much know what Samson looks like. How he ever got him any daughters like that is a wonder.”

“Where’d he come from?” Fargo asked. He’d never heard of Samson before, and he’d been around Laramie often enough.

Farley answered, “Don’t anybody know. He and them gals just showed up a while back. They live off from the fort, in the mountains somewhere. Samson don’t come down here much himself, but them girls are here pretty often. Sure do brighten the place up.”

“Yep,” Cobb said. “Kate Follett over to Follett’s Store is a widow now, and Samson’s taken a shine to her.” He reached in front of Fargo to nudge Farley’s elbow. “He ain’t the only one, either.”

Fargo knew Kate Follett. She was no longer young, but she was a fine figure of a woman. She’d come to Laramie with her husband, who’d started the store, but he’d died of a fever the first winter. Instead of going back east as most women would have done, Kate had stayed to run the store and she’d done a fine job of it. She sounded like the kind of woman a man like Samson would be interested in.