CHAPTER 13
Upon the advice of Tom Tuttle, Perley decided his best bet was to follow the stagecoach road to Deadwood. The Cheyenne station was right in front of the fancy Inter-Ocean Hotel, and he was fortunate to find a handsome Concord coach, pulled by a six-horse team, in front of the hotel that morning.
The driver, a man who gave his name only as Russ, was happy to advise Perley on the journey he was about to undertake. According to Russ, it was three hundred miles through the rugged mountains of the Black Hills in Dakota Territory to get to Deadwood. For a passenger on the stage, the trip took about fifty hours, with stops to change the horses about every ten miles. Perley figured it would take him about a week to make the trip on horseback, depending upon how rough the trail happened to be. Fort Laramie, one hundred miles from Cheyenne, was a common crossing of trails from all directions, according to Russ. So, if Perley had not discovered any trace of his grandfather before reaching it, Russ thought he could surely find evidence of him there.
“Good luck to you, young feller,” Russ said in parting. “Maybe I’ll meet you somewhere along the way. The stage leaves Cheyenne every Monday and Thursday. It comes back from Deadwood every Tuesday and Saturday. You won’t have no trouble followin’ the road. There’s been so many folks headin’ up that way it’d be pretty nigh impossible to get lost.”
“Much obliged,” Perley said and stepped back to watch his departure. The big Concord coach, with a full load of passengers inside and four more on top, pulled away from the hotel with a crack of Russ’s whip for encouragement, leaving Perley envious of the time it would make.
There were ranches contracted all along the way to change the horses, but again at Russ’s suggestion, Perley planned to camp the first night at a place called Bear Springs, about forty miles away. “Don’t fret yourself ’cause you can’t keep up with that stage,” he told Buck. “Those horses are gonna be through in about ten miles. You’ve gotta go all the way to Deadwood.”
He pushed on, following a road marked with hoofprints and wagon tracks, some left by heavy freighters and oxen, over a rugged corridor of the high plains. The land looked to him to be barren of vegetation and water, yet every ten miles or so, he came upon a creek or a stream with a farm on its banks.
He didn’t stop to inquire about his grandfather except for at one small farm, where he rested his horses and watered them in a little pond formed by a dam in the creek. The owner came out to pass the time of day with him, but he couldn’t recall having seen Perley’s grandfather. Perley expected as much. He still thought his best chance was at Fort Laramie, where his grandfather might have bought supplies, so he didn’t waste time stopping at every stage changeover station. He ended the first day at Bear Springs, as he had intended.
Each day that followed was pretty much the same as that first day, until he rode over the Laramie River on the steel bridge into Fort Laramie late one afternoon. Having never seen such a bridge, he took a few minutes’ time to stop and look the impressive structure over. Then he followed the road into the fort, stopping the first soldier he met to ask where the post trader’s store was located.
“Ride straight across the parade ground,” the soldier said and pointed to a two-story barracks. “That’s the bachelor officers’ quarters. Ride out that road that goes in front of it, toward the cavalry barracks. Before you get to it, you’ll see a sizable building. That’s the sutler’s store.”
“Much obliged,” Perley said and gave Buck a nudge with his heels.
The store was easily found with the soldier’s directions, so Perley pulled up to the hitching post and looped the reins over it. Inside, he saw a couple of men behind the counters and one sitting at a desk, shuffling some papers. Perley figured the man at the desk was most likely the sutler, so he walked over and spoke to him.
“Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wonderin’ if you could help me.”
Gilbert Collins looked up from his desk at the rangy young man. “Well, we’ll certainly try. Just tell one of the clerks over there what you need, and if we’ve got it, he’ll get it for you.”
“Yes, sir, I ’preciate that, but I was hopin’ you mighta remembered seein’ my grandpa if he came through here, maybe a couple of months ago.”
“Your grandpa?” Collins blurted, astonished by the question. Being a gentle and courteous man, he refrained from answering unkindly. “Why, friend, I don’t know. What’s your grandpa’s name?”
“Perley Gates,” Perley answered.
Collins didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he put his papers down and gave Perley his full attention. “Young man, we get folks coming and going through here day in and day out—soldiers, trappers, settlers, Indians. We’re not likely to remember any of their names, except maybe those of the men stationed here.”
Perley was not surprised by his answer and started to thank him for his time, but Collins continued.
“But that’s one name I found easy to remember, and I remember the man who wore it. I even gave him a bottle of rye whiskey at no charge. He and I talked for half the night, and he was gone the next morning.” He couldn’t help chuckling when he recalled it.
Perley was excited. He had actually struck his grandfather’s trail, but before he could speak, Collins interrupted.
“Perley Gates,” he pronounced, still chuckling. “What’s your name, son?”
“Perley Gates,” he answered.
Collins started to tell him he meant his name, but realized then. “You’re named after him?”
“Yes, sir.” Perley was overjoyed to have found his grandpa’s trail, but he was eager to ask for any additional information Collins could give him. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Grandpa had impressed the sutler.
Collins gave him further proof of this when he yelled to one of his clerks, “Hey, Jeff, you remember a fellow named Perley Gates?”
Jeff immediately smiled. “I sure do. Feisty little feller heading up to Deadwood. Said he was on his way to get rich.”
Perley could feel his heart quicken. It was the confirmation he had needed, to give him faith that he was definitely on his grandfather’s trail. “How long ago was he here?” Perley asked.
“Oh, let’s see,” Collins replied, stroking his chin while he tried to remember. “I don’t rightly recall exactly, but seems to me it was still cold weather. In the spring, I guess.”
Perley stayed to talk for a little while, asking any questions that he could think of that might help him, but Collins, although more than willing, couldn’t tell him much.
Perley thanked him and rode out of the fort to pick up the trail again before choosing a place to camp for the night. After another supper of coffee and venison, he passed a peaceful night and started out early the next morning.
A day and a half out of Fort Laramie, he was surprised to come upon a collection of rough buildings that appeared to be a small village. Thinking that this might be a place where his grandfather could have stopped, he guided Buck toward one of the larger structures, where he saw a man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch.
“Afternoon,” he greeted the fellow. “Wonder if you could tell me what the name of this town is.”
The man got up from his chair and walked to the edge of the porch. “This here is the Hat Creek Ranch and Stage Stop,” he said. “Is that what you were lookin’ for?”
“No, sir,” Perley answered. “I ain’t really lookin’ for anyplace, just ridin’ through. Wondered where I was. Wasn’t expectin’ to find a town here. I thought if it was a town, there might be a blacksmith. I think my packhorse has a loose shoe.”
“Well, you’re in luck. We’ve got a blacksmith just beyond that little shack with the flagpole. That’s the post office,” he said and pointed. “We didn’t start out to be a town, but I reckon we turned into one. This here is the hotel. We’ve got a grocery, a bakery, stables—most anything you’d need.” He seemed proud of their progress. “Where are you headed, young fellow? Deadwood, with all the other gold hunters?”
“Well, I’m headin’ to Deadwood, all right,” Perley answered. “But I don’t know much about huntin’ for gold. I’m goin’ up there to try to find my grandpa, and he mighta gone up there for gold. I promised my mother I would so I could let him know that my pa has died.”
“Is that a fact?” The man stepped down from the porch. “Come on, I’ll walk down to the blacksmith shop with you.” Perley dismounted and walked along beside him. “What’s your name, young fellow?”
“Perley Gates.”
“Perley Gates?” the man questioned, not sure he had heard correctly. “Well, that’s an unusual name. And you’re looking for your grandpa? What’s his name?”
“Perley Gates.”
“I shoulda guessed that. My name’s John Bowman. I’m glad to meetcha, Perley.”
They walked on down past the post office and telegraph office to the blacksmith shop, where Bowman introduced Perley to Ralph Baskin, the blacksmith.
“Perley, here, says his horse might have a loose shoe. I told him you didn’t know nothin’ about shoein’ horses.”
Baskin laughed, accustomed to Bowman’s japing. “If you’da seen me tryin’ to shoe that dark roan back there, you mighta thought that for sure.”
“Why’s that?” Bowman asked.
“The damn horse is crazy,” Baskin said. “He likes to bite. I’ve shoed a lot of horses that wanted to bite me, and I took that right out of ’em quick enough, but that horse is a mean one. I went round and round with him till I said to hell with it. Look at this.” He pulled his sleeve up to exhibit a nasty-looking bruised elbow. “He’da et me up if I’da let him.”
“You’d better have Marge take a look at that.” Bowman turned to Perley to explain. “Marge is the closest thing we’ve got to a doctor. She’s Ralph’s wife.” Turning back to Baskin, he asked, “Whose horse is it?”
“One of those two fellers that have been hangin’ around here for the last couple of days—say they’re waitin’ for somebody supposed to be on the stage. They look more like they’re waitin’ to hold up the stage. Anyway, he ain’t gonna be too happy when he comes back for his horse and it ain’t got new shoes.” He shrugged, as if perplexed. “But that ain’t doin’ you much good, is it?” Baskin asked Perley. “I’ll take a look at that loose shoe. Which horse?”
“The packhorse,” Perley replied. “I expect you’d best check ’em all, but it’s the left front that I noticed.”
Baskin nodded and took the lead rope from Perley.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at that roan you’re havin’ trouble with,” Perley said.
“Go right ahead, but you’d best watch him. He’ll take a hunk outta you before you know what happened.”
“I’ll watch him,” Perley said and walked to the back corner of a shed over Baskin’s forge, where a black horse was tied to the corner post. Buck whinnied and the blue roan answered with a whinny; then Buck followed behind Perley. John Bowman watched the young stranger, curious as to what he was going to do.
The roan’s nostrils flared, and he jerked his head back against the rope that held him.
“Settle down, boy,” Perley cooed softly, and the horse settled down at once. Perley spoke a few more words of reassurance to the roan and then started to stroke its neck. Pretty soon, the horse was nuzzling Perley with its muzzle. Perley turned to find both Bowman and Baskin watching him in openmouthed wonder.
Bowman was the first to speak. “I thought you said that horse was mean.”
“Look at my arm!” Baskin retorted. “What the hell did you say to that crazy horse?”
“It ain’t what I said,” Perley replied. “It’s what Buck told him.” He nodded toward the big bay. “Buck told him to behave himself, I reckon. I expect that whoever usually shoes this horse musta hurt him and he don’t want any more of that treatment.” He reached down and lifted the roan’s hoof, and the horse made no attempt to resist. “Might be a good idea if you came over and introduced yourself again,” he said to Baskin, “so he’ll know you ain’t gonna hurt him.”
Perley had always had a knack for handling horses. He didn’t know why, and neither did his brothers—he just did. It was another quirk about their younger brother. Although Perley had said it was Buck that told the roan to settle down, he had no notion if that was true. Horses can communicate with each other—he knew that to be a fact—so maybe Buck did let the horse know to be gentle.
Baskin, still in wide-eyed amazement, dropped the sorrel’s hoof and came to join Perley. Bowman was close behind. Somewhat cautiously, Baskin rubbed the roan’s withers, then gently reached down and picked up its hoof.
The roan promptly bit him on his behind.
“Yow!” Baskin screamed in pain and scrambled out of the horse’s reach. Finding it funny, Bowman couldn’t help laughing.
Perley found it puzzling. He stepped back beside the horse and, after a few pats on its neck, reached down to pick up the hoof. Again, there was no reaction from the horse. After a minute or two, he released the hoof and turned to Baskin. “I reckon he just doesn’t like you, Mr. Baskin.” He glanced at Bowman, who was still snickering, “You wanna try him and see if he behaves?”
“No, indeed,” Bowman said. “I don’t need that devil to take a bite outta my bottom.” He backed away a little farther. “Ralph, what are you gonna do? That horse ain’t gonna let you shoe him.”
Baskin was about to answer when an outburst came from the front of the shop.
“What the hell are you doin’ around my horse?” an angry voice demanded.
They turned to see a flint-eyed, snake-thin man striding forcefully toward them. He wore a black derby hat that looked too small to contain the coarse black hair it was riding on, and he was packing two six-guns, with the handles facing out.
“We were just figurin’ out how best to shoe him, Mr. Murdock,” Baskin answered.
“You ain’t finished with him yet?” Murdock exploded. “I told you I wanted him done by three o’clock, and it’s close to four now. From back there at the store, it looked to me like you was workin’ on that sorrel with the packsaddle. I need my horse and I need him now.”
His demand was punctuated by the sound of the stagecoach pulling in from the north, on its way to Cheyenne. It seemed to make him even more agitated, to the point of outright aggression.
“I need a horse, damn it!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Murdock,” Baskin pleaded. “I tried to shoe him, but he bit me—twice, now.”
“Damn you,” Murdock cursed, while taking frequent glances over his shoulder at the stagecoach pulling into the station. Already, the team of six horses was being unhitched while the new team stood waiting. “I ain’t got time for this! Take the saddle offa that bay and put my saddle on him, and hurry it up.”
He looked at Perley. “That your horse?” Perley nodded. “Well, he’s mine now—we’re swappin’ horses. You got any objections?” He dropped his hand to rest on the grip of one of his pistols.
There was little doubt in Perley’s mind that Murdock was involved in some plan that had to do with the stagecoach just arrived—robbery, more than likely. The man already had his hand on his .44., so Perley saw no sense in challenging him when he had Buck to rely on. “No, sir, I ain’t got any objections.”
He turned and pulled his saddle off his horse and stood back while Baskin picked up Murdock’s saddle and put it on Buck. Since Perley was the only one wearing a gun, Murdock pulled the .44 and held it on him while he climbed up into the saddle.
“Now, I’ll ask you to draw that weapon out real slow with your left hand and drop it on the ground,” Murdock said. When Perley did so, Murdock smirked. “You ain’t as dumb as you look.” He then wheeled Buck hard and raced toward the hotel at a gallop.
“He’s fixin’ to rob the stage!” Bowman exclaimed. “And the cavalry patrol left this morning for Rawhide Buttes.”
“I reckon he musta known that,” Perley said as he cleaned the dirt from his handgun. “We’d best be ready for him when he comes back.”
Surprised by Perley’s casual attitude, considering Murdock had just stolen his horse, Bowman asked, “Why do you think he’s coming back here?”
“’Cause he most likely wasn’t plannin’ on makin’ his getaway on foot,” Perley answered. He turned to Baskin. “I figure you must have a weapon here somewhere.” Baskin said that he did. “Well, you might wanna get it.” Back to Bowman again, he said, “You can use my rifle.” He drew the Winchester from his saddle sling and handed it to the obviously befuddled man. “It’s gonna wanna shoot a hair to the left, so you might wanna set your sight a hair to the right.”
“We need to do something to warn them up at the stables!” Bowman exclaimed.
“Give ’em three quick shots with that rifle,” Perley said.
He would have done it himself, but he thought it’d be a good idea to see if Bowman knew how to shoot it. When the man cocked and fired three shots into the air, Perley said, “Maybe that’ll let ’em know something’s goin’ on. How many men has this fellow got with him?”
“There’s just the two of ’em,” Baskin answered, “him and another feller he calls Curly. I can’t believe they’re figurin’ on holdin’ up the stage with just the two of ’em. Hell, there’s four men that work right there at the . . .”
He stopped speaking when Buck suddenly appeared from behind the post office, carrying an empty saddle.
“Attaboy, Buck,” Perley said when the big bay walked up to him. He gave him a few affectionate pats, then pulled Murdock’s saddle off and replaced it with his own. “I figure we’d best get ready to say hello to Mr. Murdock any second now. At least, that’s what I think, but you might have a better idea.”
“Hell, no.” Bowman spoke for both of them. “What do you want us to do?”
“Find yourself some cover,” Perley said, “and we’ll try to get the jump on him from three different directions.”
Both of them hurried to take cover in the niches Perley pointed out, never questioning the directions from the young stranger. In a matter of thirty seconds, they were set up in ambush.
A few minutes more saw Murdock come running into the shop, frantically looking for the bay. When he saw Buck at the back of the forge, he went directly to him, too desperate to question the disappearance of the three men who had been there. He and his partner’s half-cocked plan to take the strongbox while the horses were being changed had come apart when the warning shots were fired. Murdock had been flat on his back when he heard the three shots, having just been thrown from the horse he had stolen. When he looked toward the stagecoach, he saw four men on top of Curly, so there was nothing for him to do but run.
In his panic to escape the angry ranch hands and the stagecoach guard, he didn’t notice a different saddle on the bay. He was within six feet of the horse when Perley, Bowman, and Baskin all popped up from their hiding places, with three weapons aimed at him.
At that point, Bowman took charge of the arrest. “Throw your hands up or we’ll shoot you down!” he commanded.
Murdock hesitated, raising his hands less than shoulder-high beside him. He looked from face to face, studying the three men he had buffaloed so easily just minutes before. He couldn’t see a killer’s face on any of the three. “All right,” he said, calm now after he had weighed his chances. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna step up on that crazy horse and ride outta here, and nobody gets shot.”
“That horse is gonna throw you again,” Perley said confidently.
“If he does, I’ll put a bullet in his head,” Murdock replied, getting edgy again when sounds of men coming toward them reached his ears.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Bowman said. “You’re under arrest for trying to hold up the stage.”
“And horse stealin’,” Perley added.
Murdock glanced again at the men confronting him. He decided he liked his odds, so he turned and faced Bowman. “The hell I am,” he swore and went for his gun, only to drop it a split second later when a bullet from Perley’s .44 smashed his wrist and he let out a yowl of pain.
Bowman stood there, frozen by the threat upon his life.
Perley walked over from the water barrel he had taken cover behind and relieved Murdock of his other pistol. “Now we’ll walk on back to the street—maybe do something to fix that wrist,” he said. “I don’t know if there’s a doctor here or not, but maybe you oughta wrap your bandana around it to slow that bleedin’ down.”
“That was a helluva shot,” Baskin said, finding his voice again after a short period. “I mighta shot, too, but in my hurry to get my rifle, I forgot the cartridges. If you hadda missed, I mighta hit him in the head with it, though.” He nodded slowly. “That was one helluva shot,” he repeated and shook his head, still thinking about it. “’Course, you mighta been aimin’ at his chest, I reckon.”
“Mighta been,” Perley said. He saw no need to explain that when he saw Murdock draw his pistol, he visualized Murdock’s moving hand, much as he had the striking rattlesnake back in Paris. And it was the hand he was trying to kill.
They were met in the lane that served as a street by a sizable gathering of people, including most of the stage passengers, who had gone inside the hotel dining room. Willis Adams, the ranch foreman, took their prisoner into custody and had a couple of his men march him and his partner to a smokehouse for safekeeping until the cavalry patrol returned from Rawhide Buttes.
“That was about the dumbest attempt to hold up a stage that I’ve ever heard of,” Adams remarked after Murdock and Curly were locked in the smokehouse. “Right in the middle of the station, where any number of men could have shot ’em, instead of out along the road somewhere. Who shot that one in the wrist?”
“This young man right here,” John Bowman spoke up. “Perley Gates is his name, and he saved my life, because that fellow, that Murdock fellow, was fixin’ to shoot me.”
“Well, good work, Perley,” Adams said and stepped up to shake his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here before. You passin’ through? Ain’t by any chance lookin’ for a job, are you?”
Perley said that he wasn’t, then went on to explain why he was on his way to Deadwood.
“Well,” Adams continued, “I expect Bill Daley and Slim Cotton will want to thank you for your help. They’re the driver and guard for the stage company.”
Perley shook hands with each of them, and Adams said, “After you find your grandpa, if you need work, I can always use a man like you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Perley said, “but I expect I’ll go back to Texas.”
“Well, I’ll tell you where you’re gonna eat supper tonight,” Bowman said. “At the hotel, with my wife and daughter and myself.”
“I wouldn’t wanna cause any extra bother for your wife, Mr. Bowman. I’ve got plenty of supplies to cook my supper.”
“Nonsense,” Bowman insisted. “She’d be mad at me if I didn’t invite you to supper. If you don’t accept my invitation, I’ll have Willis, here, lock you up with those two for insulting my wife.”
Perley grinned. “In that case, I reckon I’ll accept the invitation, but I’ll need to take care of my horses.”
“You can leave ’em in the stable,” Adams offered. “We’ll give ’em water and oats, and you can pick ’em up in the mornin’ whenever you’re ready to leave.”
“Much obliged,” Perley said. “You mind if I sleep in the stable with ’em?”
“Better than that,” Bowman said before Adams could reply. “You’ll be stayin’ in the hotel tonight as my guest.”
A spectator to the conversation to that point, Ralph Baskin spoke up. “And I’ll shoe your packhorse first thing in the mornin’—no charge.”
“Well, you can’t beat that,” Perley said, overwhelmed by the outpouring of generosity on everybody’s part. “I’m much obliged to all of you, but I’m able to pay my share.”
“No such a thing,” Bowman replied. “I’m sure you can, but you hadn’t planned to, so just accept our gratitude for helping us out. Now, you go on and take your horses to the stable, and bring your saddlebags and whatever you need to stay overnight. Then come on back to the hotel, and I’ll fix you up with a room for the night. After that, we’ll go to supper.”
“I ’preciate it,” Perley said and walked back to the blacksmith shop with Baskin to get his horses.
Behind them, Bowman and Adams watched them walk away.
“It’s too bad that young man isn’t looking for a job,” Bowman remarked. “You could definitely use a man like him. He knows horses. I saw a demonstration of that when he calmed that ornery horse Murdock was riding. Probably knows cattle, too, since he said home was a cattle ranch in Texas. But more than that, he’s the best I’ve ever seen with a gun, and when it counts. I swear, Willis, I thought I was a dead man. That son of a bitch drew on me—had his gun already out—and Perley shot it outta his hand before he could pull the trigger. No, sir, there’s a lot more to Perley Gates than meets the eye. He just happens to have that innocent look about him.”
Adams shrugged. “You heard me offer him a job, but he didn’t seem to be interested in it. He might have a wife and young’uns back in Texas. Did you ask him?” Bowman shook his head, so Adams shrugged again. “Why don’t you and Lucille and Martha work on him tonight? Maybe you can convince him there’s opportunities for young men out here.”
They stood there a few moments longer until Perley and Baskin disappeared around the corner of the forge.
“Well,” Adams concluded, “I’ve gotta get back to work before my men think it’s a holiday.” He started toward the barn, then stopped and turned around. “Perley Gates—that’s a helluva name, ain’t it? Wonder how many barroom fights that’s started?” He turned back again, not waiting for Bowman’s answer.
* * *
Perley couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty when he showed up at the hotel a little while later, carrying his rifle and saddlebags. There was no one at the small desk in the foyer, but he saw a bell on the desk, so he rang it a couple of times.
A gray-haired man came from the hallway and, upon seeing him, asked, “Are you Mr. Gates?” Perley confessed that he was, and the man said, “Welcome. Mr. Bowman said to show you to your room—if you’ll just follow me.”
He turned and led Perley back down the hall. Stopping at the last door before another one leading outside, he said, “This room is close to the washroom, if you’re wanting to clean up—just outside that door and about five yards away. If the door’s open, feel free to use it. Mr. Bowman said he’d meet you in the dining room at six o’clock.”
“Much obliged,” Perley said, already enjoying the regal treatment he was receiving, something he was not at all accustomed to.
It was after five o’clock, confirmed by his railroad pocket watch, but there was still time to take advantage of the washroom, so he got his clean shirt, underwear, and socks out of his saddlebags, as well as his shaving mug and razor, and went at once to the washroom. He had not planned to change into clean clothes for another couple of days, but considering the occasion, he felt it was called for. The door to the washroom was open, with a sign on it that read IN USE, so he went inside and closed it behind him.
After a good scrubbing, he toweled off and emptied his bathwater into a large square hole in the floor beside the tub that seemed to be a good place to get rid of it. Then he pumped a bucket of water and placed it on the small iron stove where he had found it, assuming that the next bather would fill the tub from the pump, then warm the water with that on the stove, just as he had. Clean-shaven and freshly scrubbed, he felt ready to dine with Bowman and his wife.
The dining room was a cozy room with a stone fireplace at one end, not surprising to Perley, since it was a small hotel. There was a long table in the center, which occupied a large portion of the room, with two smaller tables with four chairs each, close to the fireplace. There were only three people at the long table, since most of the diners had been there at five when the dining room opened for supper.
Seated at one of the small tables, he saw John Bowman and two women. Upon spotting Perley, Bowman waved to signal him. Remembering his hat then, Perley removed it and proceeded to join them.
“Perley,” Bowman began, “we’re glad to have you join us. This is my wife, Lucille, and my daughter, Martha.”
“Ma’am . . . ma’am,” Perley responded, nodding to each of the women in turn before he pulled the chair out and sat down.
“Ladies,” Bowman announced, “this is Mr. Perley Gates.”
Perley detected the faint trace of a grin on the young lady’s face, although she struggled to hide it.
Lucille Bowman, however, maintained a passive reception to his name. “We’re so glad you could join us, Mr. Gates. My husband tells me we owe you our thanks for saving his life.”
Perley flushed a soft shade of crimson. “Why, no, ma’am,” he stuttered. “I just helped your husband and Mr. Baskin a little bit.”
“You’re too modest, Mr. Gates,” she replied. “John told us all about it.”
He was saved from having to reply when a woman came in from the kitchen carrying a tray with four serving bowls on it and placed them on the table. Perley realized then that Mrs. Bowman had not cooked supper for him as he had at first assumed. He felt stupid for not having guessed that Bowman was the owner of the hotel. The next few minutes were busy with the passing of the bowls of potatoes, beans, corn, and a platter of pork chops, along with fresh, hot cornbread. Except for the meal at Steiner’s house, it was a great deal more food than he had been accustomed to eating since leaving the Triple-G almost three months ago. It surpassed anything offered at the occasional diner he had happened upon on his journey to find his grandfather.
Perley cautioned himself at once to control his urge to dive right in, lest they think him uncivilized. Resisting the desire to pick up the pork chop with his fingers and gnaw the meat away, he tried to cut it away using his knife and fork like the ladies did.
Then Mrs. Bowman suggested, “Tell us about your family in Texas.”
“Not much to tell,” he said. “My pa just died, but my ma’s alive, and my sister and two brothers live on the ranch.” He nodded toward Martha. “I’ve got a sister-in-law named Martha. She’s my brother John’s wife. My older brother Rubin’s wife is named Lou Ann.”
“But you’re not married?”Lucille said.
“No, ma’am.”
Martha was the first to notice his discomfort. “I think Perley would like to enjoy this fine supper Grace has prepared for us,” she announced. “Let’s dig in and eat before we let it get cold.”
“Martha’s right,” her mother said. “Let’s let the man eat.” She had found out what she wanted to know anyway.
They had finished the meal and the apple pie when John Bowman started talking about his plans for Hat Creek Ranch and the opportunities that would surely be available there for any enterprising young man. Perley suddenly felt a chill down his spine when he recalled a similar pitch about Fort Collins, Colorado.
He immediately glanced at Martha, but could see no resemblance to thirteen-year-old Ethel Steiner. He could not guess Martha’s age, but knew it was considerably older than thirteen. He told himself that he was in a panic over nothing. Martha Bowman was a handsome young woman. She would have no problem finding a husband, unlike poor homely Ethel, so he put the notion out of his head. When he took another glance at Martha, her look of boredom told him he might as well. She surprised him, however, when she interrupted her father.
“You’re probably boring Perley to death, talking about Hat Creek,” Martha said. “Perley, why don’t you pick up your coffee and we’ll go out on the porch where it’s cool, so Grace and her girl can clean off the table. She’s too polite to tell us to get out of the dining room, so she can get through sometime tonight.”
“Of course—you’re right,” her mother said. “You two young folks go out and enjoy the porch. It’s time we old folks went upstairs.”
It was obvious by his expression that her husband was not finished with his plans for the future of Hat Creek, but he managed a gracious smile and a warm good-night.
Perley thanked them for their hospitality, then followed Martha to the porch, coffee cup in hand. She led him to one side and a pair of rocking chairs, laughing at his efforts to sit down without spilling his coffee.
They talked about the weather and the summer season for a few minutes, before Martha asked, “Is there a girl waiting for you back in Texas, Perley?”
The question surprised him, but he could read nothing in her face but idle curiosity. “No, no girl,” he answered. “There was one I thought I was interested in, but it turned out I wasn’t. I reckon right now I ain’t got time to think about a girl.” He told her about his feelings of responsibility for finding his grandfather, to fulfill a task that his mother thought important.
“Do you think it’s important?” Martha asked. “’Cause if you don’t, you sure have ridden a long way from Texas looking for a grandfather you’ve never seen before.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Perley was quick to reply. “I surely do think it’s important. My father wanted to bring his father back into the Gates family, and I aim to find my grandpa to tell him that.”
She studied his face while he spoke of his father and the Triple-G Ranch in Texas, and decided that the shy, innocent man was a disarming façade for a much deeper man within.
There’s more to Perley Gates than meets the eye, she told herself, and I’m sure he’s not even aware of it himself. Maybe it’s because of that silly name he’s wearing.
“I expect I’d best turn in now,” Perley said when darkness began to descend upon the Hat Creek Valley. “I’ll have to be on my way in the mornin’. I’ve really enjoyed talkin’ with you, but I don’t wanna overstay my welcome. I’ll take my cup back to the kitchen.”
“Give it to me. I’ll take it back for you,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said and handed her the cup.
“When are you going to stop calling me ma’am?”
“Right now, I expect.”
She laughed. “Good. I was beginning to think I must look like an old lady.”
“No, ma’am,” he said before he caught himself. “I mean, no, Martha, you don’t look like an old lady—not by a lot.” Feeling the ice was broken now, he ventured to ask, “How come you ain’t married? Are all the men around this place blind or just plain stupid?”
“Now you’re starting to ask the questions that my father asks,” she replied with a laugh. “The truth is, the right man hasn’t come along yet, and I’ll die an old maid before I marry the wrong one.” She got up from her chair.
Feeling that to be a signal that the visit was over, he jumped up, too. “I enjoyed meetin’ you, Martha, and I hope the right man comes along pretty soon.”
“I’m in no hurry,” she said. “I enjoyed meeting you, too, Perley. I hope we’ll see you again when you’re back this way, and good luck with your search for your grandfather.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, moving quickly to hold the door for her. He was baffled by the little impatient smile she gave him, unaware that he had called her ma’am again.
Eager to try out the hotel bed, he went to the outhouse, then went straight to his room. Never one to have trouble going to sleep, he lay awake for what seemed a long time, thinking about his conversation with Martha Bowman. Some young fellow will be lucky to throw a rope on that little lady, he thought before drifting off.