Avery caught sight of Paul angling across the street. He swung his feet off the desk, put a dossier away in the cabinet behind him, and slid the drawer shut. He turned and got his feet back up and chair tilted back just as Paul stepped through the open door.
“Morning, Avery,” Paul said. “Got a little business proposition I want to discuss with you. Can I take a few minutes?”
“Sure. If there’s some money to be made, Avery Singer always has a minute. Sit down and tell me what you have in mind.”
“I’ve got upwards to seven hundred cattle coming up the trail that’ll be here in about three weeks.”
Avery nearly overbalanced his chair. I’ll be a son of a bitch. Cattle. Army posts getting more troops for the Indian problem, and more troops means more beef. Slick as willow bark. Scrambling to keep from tipping over, he kicked a stack of papers halfway across the room. He managed to get all four legs of his chair grounded and waved at the papers lying on the floor as Paul made a move to pick up the mess. “I’ll get ’em later, don’t bother.” He settled in his chair. “Where you going to sell seven hundred beef cows?”
“Fort Hartwell. Got an appointment Monday to discuss the price.”
“How did seven hundred cattle get into Nebraska Territory this time of the year? They teach Texas cows how to fly?”
“They’ve wintered over in southeast Kansas.”
“Can’t be much of a cow left after a winter in Kansas.”
“Probably not, but I intend to graze ’em here until the fall. With the spring we’ve had, and the mild winter, they’ll get healthy in a hurry. The buffalo grass is nearly four inches high already, and it’s as thick and full as I’ve ever seen. You might not know it, but buffalo grass as fodder is just as good dry as it is green.”
“Huh, you’re right, didn’t know that. Until fall? Where you going keep them until then? Not enough room on all the farms combined for a herd that size, even if you could arrange it. Unless you have that little problem solved, you might have come up holding a polecat with no place to chuck him.” Avery struggled to hide his irritation. Shit. Here sits a chicken farmer about to dictate terms he could never get if not for that damned drunk interfering. I’d have this feather merchant’s shirt if I didn’t have Lindstrom looking over my shoulder. Feather merchant—ha, that’s a good one. No place to put all those cows. I still might get a piece of this.
“Got about four square miles of water and grass located,” Paul said.
He’s kinda smug about it.
“And half a dozen or so herders lined up to tend them for the summer.”
“Well, sounds like someone has been looking over the options. My congratulations, Paul. Now, how do I fit in here?” Avery tried to sound pleased.
“Money. I need about thirty-two hundred dollars, and I’m willing to put up my home place and the chicken operation as my bond. You come up with a reasonable interest rate, and agree to take repayment in one chunk when I sell the cattle in the fall. Is that agreeable?” Paul knew the eleven adjoining acres he had bought two years ago and all the new buildings made his place worth every bit of that.
“I’ll write that up. I know as well as anyone what your place is worth, and can’t see any reason not to let you have what you need,” Avery stated the obvious. It still rankled him to see an opportunity to pluck a chicken go by the way. He stood up and extended his hand. “Again, congratulations. I think you’re on to a good deal here.” Avery meant it when he stated the fact, but he didn’t feel quite so sincere about the compliment. He couldn’t help but wonder how many more of these Lindstrom interventions were in the works. He hoped not many. The well held only so much water, and he didn’t like standing around without a bucket ready.
Paul pushed open the door of Luger’s. Still too early for the lunch bunch, as Fred called the regulars, so Paul walked up to the bar where Fred’s wife Freda worked laying out the usual spread. “Good morning.”
“I’d be willing to argue that if I had time,” she replied.
Paul got the impression she found it an effort just to say it. Freda went through life harried, not in a hurry, or hustling along, but truly harried. She had the look of a chased fox. What’s best? Go over or under, around or through, turn right or left, stop or keep running? She snatched up the twenty-inch-long wooden platter she’d used to transport the food, marched down the bar, and into the back room. “Fred! Paul’s here.”
A couple seconds later, the back door slammed and Paul imagined the cloud of dust Freda raised as she cut diagonally across the back lot and into the house she kept for Frederick Luger, proprietor. He smiled to himself. He liked her no-nonsense approach.
“Morning, Paul.” Fred walked into the room wiping his ham-size hands on his apron.
“Fred. Gotta cup of coffee?”
“Sure, not very hot, but you’ll taste it.” He poured a cup out of a white-speckled, blue-enamel pot.
Paul noticed the last half would require a little teeth straining, the grounds dark brown and soggy-looking. He took a sip and winced. “Thanks. I think.”
“Mace was in for a while last night.” Fred leaned his elbows on the bar. “He was worked up about something but wouldn’t say much. You gonna play button-button too?”
“I can’t think of a reason not to tell you. We got a herd of cows coming up from Kansas. Be here in about three weeks.
Mace is gonna build us a camp wagon.”
“Be damned.”
Paul picked up his coffee cup, studied it for a moment, and set it back down.
“Get ya some more?” Fred pushed away from the bar.
“No, I’m still good. Got the latest paper?”
Carlisle now had a weekly paper; one folded broadsheet, printed front and back, but a welcomed addition to the town. The week-old papers they received from Lincoln and Omaha contained little about the events and issues important to people this far west. The occasional Chicago or Saint Louis paper seemed to contain even less, but John Lindstrom devoured them, and a few others read some, but most folks used them to start kitchen fires.
Fred handed him a couple. “Here ya go. I’ve got a couple other things to do before lunch, so if you need any more coffee, help yourself.” He disappeared into the back room.
Paul sat for about twenty minutes waiting for Mace to come in. Meanwhile several of the other regulars had arrived and were tucking into sandwiches. The emphatic punctuation of a domino being clacked down in play announced lunch hour was in session at Luger’s.
“Hey, Paul.” Mace greeted him when he strode through the door and headed straight for the ham and cheese.
Paul got up and followed him.
“So, how’d it go with Avery?” Mace asked.
“It was like he’d been expecting me. And I think a bit miffed about something, but I don’t know what. I’ve given up trying to figure out what Avery’s thinking.” Paul reached for the bread.
“But he agreed to let you have the money?” Mace slathered his bread slice with mustard.
“Oh yeah, like I said, he didn’t really make much of an issue of it. I think he was surprised I had all the angles worked out though. You could just see the wheels spinning in his head.”
Mace handed him the wooden paddle.
Fred walked up behind the bar. “Heard about the Texas deal, Mace. Gonna build a mobile castle I understand.” He set a crock of Freda’s pickles on the bar and the customers who saw the late addition got up from their tables and hurried over.
“Got a rough design. Pull us a couple of beers and I’ll show it to you.”
Mace picked up his sandwich and headed for the table where Paul had been sitting. The other customers, fishing six-inch, knobbly, sage-green pickles out of the crock, held Paul up for a bit and he got to the table just as Fred set their beers down.
Mace pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it to reveal a scale drawing of a modified prairie wagon. “Just a rough concept.”
“Some rough concept. Stay up all night?” Paul asked, and then bit into his sandwich.
“Wasn’t that hard. I bought the wagon used two years ago. It’s a standard four-by-ten-foot bed made of oak and poplar. Solid as the day it left Pennsylvania. Let me show ya.” Mace spread out and smoothed the paper.
Four corner posts supported a canvas-covered frame six feet above the wagon bed. Draped awnings covered the ends and one side, with another that extended out from the top on four slender ten-foot-long poles with the ends supported by a three-foot-high rail. The trailing edge of the canvas draped over the rail and to the ground to form a low wall. A foldable trestle table was depicted standing alongside the wagon.
Fred put his finger on the table. “Ain’t no self-respecting cowboy gonna set down at a table to eat. Betcha it winds up as firewood.”
“You might be surprised,” Paul said. “Everyone can sleep out of the weather, and that much shade will be wonderful come the middle of August.” He took a big bite of sandwich.
“So, ya want me to rig it up?” Mace refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket.
Paul switched the wad of meat and bread to his cheek. “Let’s get ’er going.”