Governor John Sterling paced across the carpeted floor with his hands clasped behind his back. Major Gerald Bowen concluded the meaning of Sterling’s headlong thrust and the rapid foot pattern on the oriental weaving, meant that something had the governor thoroughly upset. This was nothing new in their relationship. The major knew that the man would soon have an ulcer from all his worrying about things that went wrong in the Arizona Territory. Even before the two of them devised the secret Territorial Marshal Task Force, Sterling had fretted about something every time he summoned him to the mansion.
After the legislature turned down Sterling’s request for rangers, the lawmakers, of course, left the lucrative county by county sheriff law enforcement system in place. The Arizona Territory needed an arm of the law that went beyond the sheriff’s individual fiefdoms to ever curb the criminals, therefore the marshals. Then to avoid the ire of the legislators, he and Sterling had to be secret and named them as officers of the state court system. A very loose way to avoid controversy, or—they hoped it worked that way, with the governor issuing the agency’s wages and expense money from his federally funded court budget.
“You’ve heard about the hanging of those three ranchers in Christopher Basin?” Sterling demanded.
“It’s been on the front page of the Daily Miner enough.” The Major lit his cigar and sat back in the chair. “Yes. They say that vigilantes hung the three men. It is assumed the victims were rustlers in the area.”
“One of them was Theodore Dikes, the son of a very large political contributor from New York State. His father has contacted President Hayes, and the fat is in the fire over
his son’s lynching. Sheriff Rupp was up here an hour ago. Of course, he’s already sent two of his best deputies up there to investigate it, but he says the trail by this time is way too cold to ever learn anything.”
“I agree. What else does Rupp think about it?”
“Well …” Sterling made a wry face. “I believe Rupp is an honest man. He’s maybe one of the few such men wearing a sheriff’s badge in the Territory who is honest. Frankly, he thinks the mystery of who did it will go unsolved.”
“That means the locals probably know who hung them and won’t tell?”
“Yes. In most of these cases, he says they do know and they will protect their own.”
“If the president had not wired you?” The major looked hard at Sterling, wondering what would have been his response without pressure from D.C.
“I don’t know. His secretary contacted me about the urgency of it, and I have to answer him immediately with my plan.”
The major set his cigar down and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “If Rupp can’t learn anything up there, then we need someone to go in there undercover and try to find out who did it.”
“Who could do that?” Sterling cast a troubled look at him.
“I’m thinking he needs to be a cowboy or stockman. Needs to fit in with those people and then try to find a crack in their wall of silence.”
“How long will that take?”
“Months, I suspect.”
“Oh, no, that won’t work. I need an answer today about what I am doing out here.”
“These Dikes must be powerful people.” The major drew his head back and gave him a frown. Why did Sterling always expect immediate results that were impossible?
“They must be very important.” Sterling threw his hands in the air. “This may be the most serious thing we do.”
The major agreed. “I’m afraid I need to go and find the right man for this job.”
“Where?” Sterling blinked his eyes in disbelief.
“Fort Smith, Arkansas.” He nodded to himself, pleased with thinking of the place as a source for his new marshal. That should be the spot to find him.
“Why there?” Sterling frowned in disapproval at the notion.
“Judge Parker’s court has jurisdiction over western Arkansas, the unassigned lands, and the Indian Territory. His chief marshal has lots of U.S. deputies. Several of them, I understand, have a southern drawl. Most of those ranchers up in Christopher Basin came from Texas, right?”
“Yes, but Fort Smith—that’s weeks away from here.” Sterling looked frustrated and beside himself at the prospect of more delays.
“Those three men’s graves are cold. Another week or so won’t hurt them.”
“This new marshal that you’re going to hire—”
“John, I don’t even know his name.”
Sterling clapped his hands on both sides of his face. “What will I tell—”
“Tell the president that the local law is working on it. Fire off a letter to that U.S. Marshal Bloom in Tucson.”
“Him!” Sterling shook his head. “He’ll tell me that lynching isn’t a federal crime.”
“Good,” the major said, on the edge of losing his temper. “But you can tell Washington you have even asked the U.S. marshal to look into it.”
Sterling frowned impatiently. “You know Bloom won’t do a gawdamn thing.”
“I’m going to do something. I’m going home to pack my bags. I’ll be at the railhead as fast as I can and catch the first train east. I’ll wire you from there.”
“Fort Smith?” Sterling crossed his arms and held them. He dropped his gaze to the floor, as if he couldn’t fathom the plan.
“That will be our best option to hire a man who can fit
in up there. Perhaps, I say, perhaps … he can break the silence.”
Sterling squeezed his beard and looked hard at him. “Damn it, doesn’t it go against your grain to hire someone you know was a former Reb soldier?”
“Not if he can get the job done.”
“It damn sure would me. It would absolutely scald my backside to have to hire one. Oh, go find the man and then we can sit around here and stew until he learns something.”
“Sterling?” The major waited. “This will not happen overnight. That man has to worm his way in up there. Don’t expect an open and shut door.”
Sterling held his hand out to stop him. “I understand. Do it your way and I will face the consequences.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We’ll have to do it that way. We’ve no other choice.”
“Right. I better go pack.”
“Yes, be careful, Gerald. I understand that Fort Smith is even wilder country than Arizona.”
“I don’t know how it could be,” the major said, and left the mansion.
The major had a lot to do. As he made his way downhill to the Walnut Creek Bridge, he considered his new alliance with Ellen Devereau, the madam who ran that high class house of ill repute, the fancy two-story brick Harrington House on the hill. It would do to speak to her about this matter. Women like her learned more in ten minutes than some diligent lawmen could in a month. He would do that upon his return. First, he needed that man in place up there at Fortune, and all this arranging might take as long as a month. So poor Sterling’s upset stomach could last for that long. The governor would simply have to wait, if Sheriff Rupp’s men didn’t turn up anything more in their investigation.
At the house his wife, Mary, helped him pack his bags and acted concerned. “You need to be careful. You aren’t a boy anymore.”
“Oh, an old man at forty-three, am I?” he teased her.
“You aren’t in authority either. You’re a retired military officer.”
“You’re saying I still act like an officer?”
“Well, you aren’t one.”
He hugged her and laughed. Then he kissed her on the cheek. He would miss her. It was a shame they never had children to share their lives. Wasn’t to be, the doctor said. The famous physician they sought back east really had few answers then, and after years without results, they gave up looking forward to ever having any offspring of their own. At different times, they kept several orphaned Indian children, but each one was later claimed by relatives.
He could recall their saddest ordeal, when the squaw came and asked for Betsy Sue. Then they lived in officers’ quarters at Fort Bowie. Fine two-story house, and the young Indian girl made it come alive. At her age, which they guessed as seven, she had proven a delight to Mary. Then one day her aunt showed up at the front door and asked for her.
All the Chiricahuas were being sent to the San Carlos Agency. Her aunt felt Betsy should go and be with her people there. When Mary asked Betsy Sue what she wanted, the child, close to tears, hugged her and whispered, “Go with Nan-Nah.”
The separation proved hard on Mary. She never spoke of another adoption or caring for a child again. It was like she shut her heart away until they moved to Prescott and she found a new pursuit: her blooming flowers, which were the talk of the town. It pleased the major that she had found a new love to take up a portion of her loss.
The stage for the railhead at Ash Fork left Prescott at four in the afternoon. The driver put the major’s bags in the back compartment, spoke cordially to him, and motioned he could get aboard, if he liked. In the flurry of activity around the stage office, the major climbed inside and took the back facing seat.
A long purple ostrich feather came at him first. Like a
shaking bird’s head, it probed the inside of the coach. Then the young woman under the hat blinked her long black lashes at him.
“Is that seat taken?”
“No, ma’am.”
“No,” she said, standing in the aisle and switching her skirt around her narrow waist until it satisfied her. “My name ain’t ma’am. It’s Lily Corona.”
“Lily Corona.” He tipped his hat. “Gerald Bowen.”
She plopped down beside him in a great show of petticoats and high-top buttoned shoes. Then she pressed her skirt down and turned to smile at him.
“I’m going to St. Louis, Gerald.”
“Business or pleasure?”
She gave him a wicked wink. “I do both, Gerald. What do you do?”
“Retired military. I work for the governor.”
“I would love to be retired,” she said, and looked at her fingernails. They must have satisfied her, for she quickly put her hands down and half turned to look at him. “What do retired people do for the governor?”
“I work for him because I can’t live on the money that I retired upon.”
“Do interesting things?”
“Like go to Fort Smith to hire a man.”
“I’ve been there,” she said, sounding amazed. “I worked in Molly Mather’s Cathouse right there on the Arkansas River.”
“Guess you saw the seedier side of Fort Smith from there.”
“No, not really. I met some really nice marshals when I worked there.”
“Did you say lawmen?” he asked. She might know one who would work. He weighed whether he should continue. With her leaving the territory, she couldn’t be too great a risk and might even know the man he needed. “You knew some of the marshals that work for the court?”
“A few,” she said, and pursed her lips as if satisfied with her intuition.
“Ready to roll,” the driver said from on top. He kicked the brakes loose and hurrahed at the horses. The major realized that they would be the only ones on the stage for Ash Fork. In a lurch, the conveyance left Prescott, tossed him from side to side with Lily. The stage cornered the block and headed for Chino Valley.
“Any of these lawmen you knew were real cowboys?” he asked, looking out the open window at Thumb Butte to the west.
“Yeah. One I knew was a drover. Luther Haskell. He’s the real thing, if you truly need a drover and a lawman.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty, but he’s hard as nails and brings in lots of prisoners. They say he can ride anything with hair on it.” Then she laughed aloud at her words and he felt his face grow red.
She slapped his leg. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude. You will forgive me?”
“Of course.”
“Luther originally came to Fort Smith to sell cattle to the Indian agencies. But them agents was so crooked, he gave up on that. He wanted no part of them. Why, they were giving them poor starving Indians old tough beef they bought dirt cheap and pricing it to the government like it were good stuff.”
The major looked out the side window as they passed through the jumbled malapia rocks of the Dells. Luther Haskell might be a man to look up and talk to when he reached Fort Smith. He would keep the name in mind.
“Yeah, he’s a real cowboy.” She smiled as if there was more unspoken about the lawman. “Good-looking, too.”
“Guess that counts,” Gerald said, to make conversation.
“Oh, yeah. My, it does. You sometimes get guys that are ugly as a bear. Have to shut your eyes tight. But now Luther’s took up with me girlfriend Tillie McQuire.” Lily nodded her head as if that were the fact of the matter. “She
wrote last week in a letter all about how a couple of months ago him and her captured some marshal killer over in Shack Town.”
Gerald nodded. Why in the hell did he have a dove along with him going after a killer? That would be suspect of poor judgment in his book. Yet Haskell was still a lead.
“She said she drove the buggy to run down the scudder, and he jumped off and got him. Must have been hairraising, don’t you think?”
“Must have been. You worked in Preskitt?”
“Naw, I went up to the Crown King district. To the mines. I dealt some cards. But there ain’t much money or gold floating around up there. Not like a real gold camp, where them good old boys find some in their sluices every day and come to town every night to spend it. Whoopee! Why, a girl can get rich in them kinda of camps.”
“You didn’t get rich at Crown King?”
“Naw. But I made some money. Only, you have to be there on the first and fifteenth—that’s when the workers get paid at the mine.” She made a face like those dates must have posed real work for her. “Like I said, there weren’t many good old boys with pokes of gold up there.”
“You found one, though?” He chanced aloud what he suspected.
“Yeah, I did.” She leaned forward and looked at him as if to say “How did you know?” “That’s why I’m going home to see my momma in St. Louis. She ain’t well.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Well, she’s never claimed me for the past ten years. Mad that I was working in them cathouses and dealing cards. Said it ruined the family name. Hell, I never used that name. Now she’s sick and the rest of them worthless kids say they can’t help her, so she calls on me.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t think she’d want my soiled money, would yah? But she does.”
They soon arrived at the Chino Valley relay station and the men came hurrying outside to switch horses. The major felt grateful for the still portion of the ride at last. The
driver popped open the door and stuck his mustached face inside.
“Only be here five minutes. Facilities are out back and coffee’s inside.”
She looked pained at the major, removed her hat, and put it on the vacant seat. “Better go use it,” she said, and in a rustle of skirts and petticoats bailed out of the stage. “Be right back.”
He swung down to stretch his already sore frame.
“Nice night,” the driver said, standing on the porch, cradling a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. “We should be there on time.”
The major thanked him, his mind set on the woman’s referral. Luther Haskell, a man he wanted to at least talk to at Fort Smith.
The Frisco, more properly called the St. Louis and San Francisco Railroad, made a passenger run out of Monett, Missouri, to Fort Smith, Arkansas, twice a day. The tracks ran north to south over the Ozark Plateau, a familiar land where the major commanded troops during the last three years of the war. The puffing locomotive plowed southward through a recently completed tunnel at the top of the pass in the Boston Mountains, raced over several high wooden trestles, and stopped at Van Buren, then rumbled across the wide muddy Arkansas on a high bridge and arrived at the stone station on the riverbank, where the conductor called out, “Fort Smith, Arkansas!”
Not bad, four days later and he made his destination. This whole United States grew smaller by the minute. Using a handkerchief to mop his neck and perspiring face, he had forgotten about the high humidity of this land.
“Get them bags for ya, suh?” a black man asked.
“Yes. Which is the cleanest hotel?” he asked, surveying the blocks of new multistory brick buildings that lined Garrison Avenue standing against the afternoon’s blue sky.
“I’s never stayed in one, suh.”
“Oh, I see. Take me to the one you think is the best. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Dan. Dan Tuney.”
“Good, Dan Tuney, you’re the man.”
“Yes, suh, you’s follow me.” The lanky built black picked up both bags and started up the grade to the street.
“Where’s Molly Mather’s place?” he asked, looking around.
“Oh, you’s wants to stay there?” The man frowned with concern and confusion in his eyes.
“No.” The major chuckled at his reaction. “Later I want to speak to a young lady there.”
Dan raised his shoulders in a shrug. “It be down there on the river. Folks goes there for lots of reasons. I guess you can talk all you wants to one of them if you’s got the money to pay her.”
“I do.” The major looked around. Brick streets and gas lights, very impressive layout. Fort Smith’s recovery since the war looked impressive. Plenty of traffic. This place was really buzzing.
He hurried to keep up with Dan in the congested sidewalk traffic of men in sea caps from the riverboats, cowboy hats, derbies, and stovepipes. Several Indians wrapped in blankets moved about. Some sat dejected in alleys, obviously having consumed too many spirits. Barkers shouted about the cheap prices and good deals of their respective saloons. Commerce in the city looked full steam. He stayed on Dan’s heels.
The Diamond Hotel lobby’s hardwood floors shone from a wax polish when the major walked in off the street. An aloof young man behind the desk primped and acted very important. He adjusted his bow tie before he greeted them.
“I need a room for a couple of days,” the major said, and looked around at the potted ferns and sofas.
“Has someone recommended you to our establishment?”
“You need that to stay here?”
“We require it, sir.”
“General Tecunseh Sherman did.”
“Oh, yes, sir. That will be adequate.” The clerk opened the register, fanned the pages, and turned the book around for the major to sign.
Smug over his quick answer, he shared a sly smile with Dan, then stepped up. He scratched his name and address on the line and the man produced a key tagged 224.
“That’s upstairs and to the right, sir.”
“Dan? Let’s go,” he said. Motioning for him to go first, he fell in behind the black man. They hastily climbed the flight of carpeted steps.
“I’s sorry, Major, I never knowed about the recommendation needed stuff. Ain’t many of my customers stays in this fancy place,” Dan whispered over his shoulder near the top.
“That’s fine, Dan. And by the way, I may need a guide. What do you charge by the day?”
“Dollar be a good sum?”
“Fair enough,” he said, unlocking the door. “I will be downstairs in half an hour, and you be ready to show me some places in Fort Smith.”
“You need a buggy, suh?” Dan put his bags on the bed, opened them, and begun to hang up the major’s clothes on the rack in the corner.
“Perhaps later. For now we will use shank’s mare.”
“Oh, yes, suh, I sure be waiting.”
The major tossed him a quarter. Dan caught it doublehanded with a clap that drew a wide smile of white teeth and pink gums.
“Half an hour downstairs?”
“Yes, suh-ree.”
When he came from his room and stepped out front, he found his man waiting and on his feet. Dan informed him that the best food in town was at the Cotton Cafe. Of course, they parted company at the front door of the resturant. Dan waited outside, for no blacks were allowed in the place. The major ordered southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh greens, soda biscuits, and iced tea. He called the waiter over before he finished his plate.
“Wrap me two drumsticks and two biscuits in a napkin. My driver will be starved.”
“What is his name, sir?”
“Dan. He’s out front.”
“I will have him come to the back door in the alley and we will feed him whatever you request.”
“The whole thing and a slab of apple pie,” the major said.
“Very good,” the man said, and went to the front door. Through the front glass windows, he could see the waiter talking to Dan. The lanky form took off at a run. Satisfied his man would be fed, he went back to enjoying his own food. The railroad fare had been bad, but this delightful meal restored him.
He finished with a large slice of the apple pie under thick cream and a succulent cup of hot coffee. In no rush, he noticed the grinning Dan had returned out front, busy picking his teeth.
When the major came out, Dan nodded to him. “It sure be okay food and I sure thank you much.”
“Good. I need to see the chief U.S. marshal now,” the major said, looking up and down the bustling afternoon sidewalk traffic. Attractive ladies with parasols in the latest fashion strolled by. Amongst the crowd, he noticed children dressed in fashionable clothing and other youngsters in rags begging as they went, and quick to dodge a intended kick or clout from an angry drunk.
“Chief marshal, he be at the courthouse.” Dan pointed west. “Two blocks that way and two blocks south.”
“Good.”
“Ah, yes, suh. That was sure good food. Best I done had in a while. Thank you.”
“You looked hungry. Tell me about this court business,” the major said as they strode down the sidewalk, weaving through traffic.
“That old Judge Parker, he holds court all day and half the night. He be a workhorse, you could say.”
“Parker?”
“Yes, suh, Issac C. Parker. He hangs them killers too. Sends them others off to the Detroit federal prison by the carloads. They going to have to build wings on that place pretty soon, he done send so many up there.”
“Is he fair?”
“I’s don’t know. What be fair? Them guys his deputies bring in, they all rough as bears. One guy says that they didn’t do that, but they sure enough done did ten things worse than that.” Dan laughed and showed his large teeth.
“Do the deputies get paid well?”
Dan shook his head like he wasn’t certain. “They gets two dollars an arrest, some mileage and money for food, but they don’t get no salary.”
The major nodded. He had heard they were only paid for what they did, very similar to what his man had told him. Good. Then the right candidate could be hired for what he could offer him in wages. One hundred fifty a month, and expenses. The task would be picking the right man.
Dan waited for him at the base of the stairs of the federal courthouse. Obviously he did not feel like going up the flight to wait at the white doors on the second floor. Climbing them, the major recalled the Army using these facilities for official business during the war. He entered, removed his hat, and spoke to the receptionist, a young man busy with many official-looking papers spread across his desk.
“Chief marshal in?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Major Gerald Bowen.”
“Oh, I am sure he will see you, sir.” The boy popped up and hurried down the hallway.
In minutes he returned with a bare-headed man who wore a walrus mustache. The man struck out his hand.
“Major, I’m Carl Williams. What may I do for you?”
“Good day, sir. I need a few minutes of your time. In private, sir.”
“Come back to my office. You live near here?”
“No, Arizona.”
“I knew your face was new to me. Come on in.” The man showed him inside a spacious office. Cases of rifles and shotguns lined the wall. A picture of President Hayes and one of George Washington hung on the other wall. Light came in from some high windows and the office felt sweltering.
Williams motioned for him to take a seat and dropped with a creak into a wheel-back, wooden chair behind the cluttered desk.
“I work for the territorial governor of Arizona, John Sterling. I am in need of a man to hire as special undercover agent who is unknown in that region.”
“I have some good men. I’ll put out the word.”
“No.” The major reached out. The man didn’t understand. He hadn’t come over a thousand miles to let the whole damn world know his purpose. “I can’t afford for this to leave this room. It might jeopardize the man’s life. There are rumbles clear to the White House over this case. Do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand. Sounds like a serious matter.”
“That’s why I came by myself instead of wiring you. The man I need must be above reproach and he needs to be a cowboy.”
Williams sat back in his chair and shook his head in dismay. “You’re sure asking for a lot.”
“You have any deputies like that I could speak to?”
“A few.”
“Which one would be the best one?”
“Nate McMillan.”
“Who’s he?”
“Served in the Confederate army, sergeant’s rank. Has a wife and three—”
“Won’t work,” the major interrupted him. “He won’t want to go out there and be away from his family.”
“Guess you’re right. I’ll have to think on it some more.” Williams shook his head, as if he could not recall any other possibility.
“Fine, I am at the Diamond Hotel.” The major rose and
handed the man his card. “If you get the name of a possible candidate, let me know.”
Strange that this Texan whom the dove spoke about, Luther Haskell, didn’t come up in Williams’s conversation. Was there something about Haskell he should know about? Maybe he wasn’t the man he needed. The notion niggled him as he prepared to leave Williams’s office.
“I’ve got lots of men working for me. I’ll go over the roster and see if there’s one fits your needs.” Williams stood, and stretched his back. “If there isn’t one here, where will you go next?”
“Fort Worth.”
“Plenty of cowboys around there.”
The major agreed and left the chief marshal. Outside, he joined Dan at the base of the stairs. “Where’s that whorehouse?”
“My, my, Mr. Major, you sure didn’t have much business in there.”
“No help in there.” He glared at the column of smoke coming from a paddleboat’s stack chugging upstream. The notion struck him that he needed to be careful in this town. Some rebel or bushwhacker from the war days might recognize him and still hold a grudge.
“I bets they done got someone up at that place what can sure help you.” Dan chuckled to himself and slapped the knees of his wash-worn trousers. “Yes, suh, I bets they sure do.”
“Maybe,” he said, letting a small grin play in the corner of his mouth.
They walked the four blocks and Dan pointed to the front door of the two-story house. Half a dozen steps led to a wide porch. The sun died in the west, spreading blood-red over the rippled water of the wide Arkansas. A fishy smell hung in the air. The major could hear a tinny piano inside when he reached the door to knock.
“Good evening, sir, and welcome. Come inside. Our rules are no guns, no knifes allowed. Check them here in the hall, then you may go in the parlor,” the buxom woman
in a green silk dress said. She waited while he unstrapped his holster and wrapped the gun belt around the .45. “I’m Miss Molly.”
“Gerald Bowen.”
“Fort Smith?” she asked over her shoulder.
“No, Preskitt, Arizona.”
She turned back to blink at him. “You are a long way from home, sir. Anything in particular that you have in mind?” She waved to an assortment of girls sitting on the couches with smiles for him. Most were dressed in very little clothing and looked to be teenagers.
“I need to speak to Tillie McQuire.”
“Oh. Why, she’s upstairs resting, but you may go up and knock on her door.”
“Which room?” he asked with his nose full of her potent perfume.
“The last one on the left. Down the hallway.”
“Thanks,” he said, and started for the staircase.
“You do know your left?” she asked.
He raised that hand and nodded to her with a grin. The woman’s words drew a snicker from the parlor girls. He ignored it and climbed the worn steps. At the end of the hallway, he stopped at the open door on the left.
A young woman lounged on the bed wearing something like a black mosquito netting. One exposed white leg cocked up. The other draped over the side. She fanned herself with a funeral-home issue on a stick.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You Tillie McQuire?”
“Yes,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him between swishes of the fan.
“Lily Corona said that you could help me.”
“Lily? Why, she’s way out west.” She dropped her leg, sat up, and placed them together, which only made it worse because he could see everything through the net material.
“Yes. She said you could introduce me to Luther Haskell.”
“You have business with Luther?”
“I need to talk to him.” He lowered his voice. “Privately.”
“He’s supposed to be coming in the next few days,” she said, fussing with the filmy material, smoothing it out over her shapely legs.
“He’s not here now?”
“In Fort Smith? Oh, no. He’s gone to the Kiamish Mountains to serve some warrants.” She gathered her long brown hair in both hands and twisted it over her shoulder. “But he will be here by Friday. He promised to take me to supper then.”
“Guess he won’t disappoint a pretty girl like you?”
She wet her lips and smiled at him. “You’re very nice.” With an intent glare, she looked him up and down. “You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?”
“No, ma’am, I have a business offer to discuss with him. I understand he knows about cattle.”
“You don’t look like the treacherous kind, anyway.” She wrinkled her thin nose to dismiss that. “Oh, yes, he was raised on a ranch, drove lots of them to Kansas.”
“My name is on this card. I am staying at the Diamond Hotel. Ask him to contact me.”
She took it and shook her head back to loosen her hair. Then she looked up at him and licked her lips again with the tip of her tongue. “Now, what else can I do for you?”
“Nothing. This is for you.” He handed her a five-dollar gold piece. “You tell Luther Haskell that I want to talk to him.”
“My, my, for this I could sure …” She closed one eye seductively. “Let’s say, entertain you.”
“Not tonight.”
“I know,” she said, sounding disappointed. “He needs to see you at the hotel.”
“Thank you. Is there a back way out of here?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll let you out the back stairs.”
“Thanks,” he said to her again.
Grateful to at last be out in the still night air, he started down the long flight. Over in the dark inky river, a boat
pilot blew a sharp horn. He waved good-bye to Tillie and bounded down the steps. The alley stunk of rotten garbage. He soon made his way to the street and found Dan.
“You leave without paying them girls?” Dan asked, frowning at his appearance coming from the other direction.
The major laughed, then clapped the man on the shoulder. “Where can a black and a white man have a drink together?”
“Blue Aces be the place. You must have sure had a good meeting in there?”
“I did, Dan.”
“Well, where we going next, it ain’t much of a place—what’s wrong?” Dan asked when the major stopped, swept his coat aside, and shook his head. “I need to go back and recover my pistol.”
“Oh, you gots in such a hurry, you left it?” Dan laughed some more.
“Something like that.”
At last with his hardware retrieved and strapped under his coat, they hurried along the river front to a dive called the Blue Aces. Dan warned him that the crowd might get a little rowdy, but he would’t let them shanghai him. The major found that amusing, but didn’t doubt it happened in the dimly lit barroom. The floor was hard-packed dirt. At the bar, they enjoyed some halfway cool beer in a tunnel of smoke.
On a small stage under flickering candlelight, a black banjo picker played fast riverboat tunes on the strings and sang some of them. A mulatto teenager in a short red dress pranced and twirled around the musician showing her skin and most of her private areas to the roaring crowd.
Considering his presence in this rather obscene setting, the major wanted to laugh aloud. Mary would never believe him that such a place as this existed. The fact it was only a block or so away from the organized business district and that such a seedy dive could even operate there amused him.
“Hoy, Dan,” a big bearded white man said, and pumped
Dan’s hand. From under a flat-brimmed wool cap, his greasy, curly locks hung in his brows. He looked intently at Dan as they shook.
“Meet the major here, Scotty,” Dan said.
“I be proud to make the acquaintance, mate.” The big man’s paw felt firm and strong enough to break necks if needed. “Infantry or horse soldier?” he asked.
“Horse.”
“Horse, huh? Ah, you ever knew the likes of Georgie Armstrong Custer back then?”
“A time or two. Our paths crossed.”
“Ah, may gawd rest his soul good, laddie. At Fort Lincoln, he put me arse in the guardhouse and went off to the war against the bloody Sioux without me. It was a bloody damned shame for me, huh?”
The major toasted him with his pewter mug. “He might have won that battle of Little Big Horn with the likes of you along.”
“Hoy, Dan.” The Scotsman indicated the major. “He’s a helluva great chap for an officer. Where ya been ah-hiding him?”
“Just found him today.” Dan beamed a big toothy smile.
“Hey, Major, where else ya been?”
“With George Crook in Arizona.”
“Aye, I seen him, too, once in Montana. Don’t like to wear uniforms, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t. Rides mules, too.”
“Ah, yeah. See you two. I got to be running away. Got me a little sweet thing from Shack Town waiting for me outside. You boys be good.”
“Tomorrow,” the major began, “rent us a rig. Fifteen years ago, at the end of the war, I was in Van Buren. I want to see it again.”
“Yes, suh, Major. I will show you this whole country if’n you got’s the time.”
He didn’t want to tell Dan that he was only waiting to talk to one man: Luther Haskell. No need to act anyway but interested in looking around. Williams had not acted
too eager about giving up any of his men to him. If he failed to find a suitable marshal here, he’d have to go to Texas to get one.
“Say, you seen that head marshal? Tomorrow we can go by and speak to the best black lawman there is over at Van Buren. If him be home. He’s really a big lawman for him being a black.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bass Reeves.”
“He’s the best?”
“For a black man, he sure be.”
“I’d like to meet this Reeves.” He might know someone.
The major ordered another round of beer for them. He rather enjoyed Dan’s company, and relaxed for the first time since he left Arizona. Sitting in a room full of thugs, pimps, whores, and even stranger individuals, he still felt safe enough with Dan and the Colt under his coat.
In the golden sunlight flooding Garrison Avenue, Dan pulled up the buggy before the Cotton Cafe. The major noticed his arrival, while still eating his breakfast and enjoying a rich cup of coffee. He sent the waiter out to tell Dan to go around back and get his food.
After breakfast, they drove out of Fort Smith, through the farms to the free ferry and crossed the river to Van Buren. The major could see from the landing how much the town had grown since his post-war days in the village. Before they went to Van Buren, Dan planned for them first to drive down in the bottoms to this black lawman’s place. Mid-morning, they reached Reeves’s neat farm.
The major watched the big man rein up his team of sweating mules, tie off the reins, lay down his double shovel, and come striding over to Dan. His shoulders were wider than most lumberjacks’ and he had arms that looked like hams on draft horses. The man’s even white teeth sparkled against his clean-shaven jaw.
“Dan, what brings you out here?”
“The major here, Bass. He wants to meet you.” Dan
wrapped the reins and jumped down to let the major off.
“Major Bowen. Nice to meet you, Marshal Reeves.” He shook the man’s huge callused hand. It felt like the black could crush an arm or leg in his powerful grip. The skin of Reeves’s palm felt tougher than rawhide from an old bull’s hide.
“My pleasure. How can I’s help you?”
“I need to hire a marshal to do some work for my agency. He needs to know cattle and ranching.”
“That be Luther Haskell.”
“Someone else came up with that name.” The major considered the man’s quick reply. He wanted to ask why Chief Marshal Williams hadn’t thought of Haskell. Did he not know his own men that well?
“They done gave you the best name.” The big man crossed his massive muscular arms over the faded blue shirt and galluses.
“Why didn’t the chief marshal mention him when I asked?”
“Well, that be simple, Major, suh. Some of them boys kinda crowds closer to the chief. That Haskell, he ain’t no bootlicker, Major, suh.”
“I need a tough man, not a bootlicker.”
“That’s Haskell. He be plenty tough. I served some warrants with him, down among them black Seminoles, ‘cause I could tell them apart.” A wide grin crossed his dark shiny face. “Luther’s plenty tough. Saved us getting killed when he jerked up the leader of this gang and says to him, ’You got two choices: Tell them throw down their guns, or they better have them some good clothes to wear to your funeral.’” Reeves shook his head and laughed aloud. “Them boys never had no dress clothes, I guess, ’cause they shucked them guns like dry peas in a sheller.”
“Thanks,” the major said with a smile, and shook the man’s hand again. “Sounds like Haskell is the man I’m looking for.”
“You needs a real one, he sure is.”
“I do, I do. I would appreciate you not saying a thing about this.”
“My lips are sealed, suh.”
“Good. Dan, let’s go see Van Buren. Oh, yes, and many thanks for your help. You still marshaling?” he asked the black lawman.
“Oh, yeah.” Then with a knowing look, he said, “They finds a little more work for them white marshals. Course, they ever got a two-headed snake, I gets to go after them. Besides, this corn of mine needs laid by.”
“Good-looking crop.” The major saluted him and got on the buggy.
Next Dan showed him the bustling river town of Van Buren. From the war shattered village the major recalled from over a decade before, there had been much recovery. In and out of several shops, he looked for some geegaws to take back to Mary. At last he found four crystal salt cellars and had the clerk wrap them well in newspaper for him to carry back. Afterward Dan drove him to the ferry and they arrived back at the hotel close to suppertime.
“I guess until the man returns, we can sightsee,” the major said.
“Yes, suh, I be here with this here buggy come morning.”
In the next few days, the major and Dan visited the communities around Fort Smith. Out in the Indian Nation, the major even happened to meet an ex-noncom who served under him, Jasper Thornton, who came close to tears when he discovered the major’s identity.
With each passing day, the major grew more restless with his waiting. In his letters to Mary, he mentioned the high humidity in the river valley and how he missed the dry, cool air of Prescott. In his writing, he almost spelled it Preskitt, the way the residents pronounced it. Even the Arkansas nights were saturated with humidity. Bathing didn’t cool him—he finished each bath sweating worse than before. He looked out the open window of his hotel into the street below. Not a breath of air stirred.
In the distance he heard what sounded like cannon fire. He listened closer and then saw the flashes on the western horizon. A storm was headed toward Fort Smith. Maybe a good rain would cool things down.
He mopped his sweaty brow and turned away from the window. Any relief would be nice. Perhaps this trip would all be in vain. Poor Sterling must have walked a hole in his carpet fretting about him and how to handle the Christopher Basin lynching.
Where was this Luther Haskell?