Milky Trail to Death: A Western

CHAPTER ONE

He came into the town at the back end of a hot, physically draining day. The heat continued to pulse through the thick air as it had since he set out, so hot that his sweat evaporated as soon as it appeared. His canteen of water was empty, his horse bedraggled and close to collapse. The mare needed rest and sustenance and so did he.

A gnarled old man was just shutting up the gates to the livery. He turned and frowned at the stranger’s approach. Blowing out a loud sigh, he reopened the gate. You’ll be staying long?

A couple of days.

You were lucky to catch me. It’s late. He looked to the slowly darkening sky for a moment before returning his bleary, watery eyes to the stranger. You look all done-in, boy. You been riding far?

Far enough.

The old-timer shrugged and waved the stranger in. All righty, if that’s how you want it.

That’s how I want it.

All righty. Go and stable her inside and I’ll see you in the office. His eyes narrowed. For payment.

Two bits a day, said the old-timer moments later when the stranger stepped into the office. That includes feed and it’s a good deal.

Never doubted it, said the stranger, snapping down the coins on the top of the desk separating him from the old-timer. He watched the man scribbling something in a dog-eared ledger. That’s two nights, just in case.

In case of what?

The stranger drew in a breath. I need to stay longer.

You want board there’s Miss Bessy’s guest house. She provides a comfortable bed with a fine breakfast and dinner.

That’s your recommendation?

The old-timer sat back in his chair. Mister, it’s all we got. This ain’t exactly the liveliest town in these parts.

The stranger tipped his hat and turned to go.

It’s second on the right, said the old-timer. Tell her Destry sent you. She’ll give you a discount.

Pausing at the door, the stranger considered the old-timer with keen interest. Is that right?

Sure is, he said, a toothless grin spreading across his craggy face, I’m her husband.

With the sound of his cackling ringing throughout the tiny office, the stranger stepped outside.

He crossed the yard, pausing at the gate to notice, despite the growing darkness, the tall, angular-looking tough standing across the street from him, leaning nonchalantly against a hitching rail, smoking a cigarette. There was a tied-down six-gun at his hip, set low on his thigh. His stare never faltered, almost as if he was daring the stranger to stare back. Ignoring him, the stranger turned, closed the gate, and walked down the street to find Miss Bessy’s.

The interior was thick with the aroma of pork stew and beans. It hung in the air like a living thing, clinging to every item of tired-looking furniture arranged around the sides of the foyer. The stranger dragged off his hat and wiped his brow with his neckerchief. The heat was stifling. Several large oil lamps belched out a dreary light and contributed to the oppressive atmosphere.

He crossed to the reception desk, picked up the tiny brass bell sitting there, and shook it. He doubted the tiny peal was loud enough to be heard, but within less than a minute, a blonde woman emerged, face glistening with sweat, eyes alight with surprise. She came forward, and the stranger found himself relaxing as she smiled.

Evening, she said.

She was a handsome-looking woman, he had to admit. Wrapped in a tight-fitting apron that barely contained her ample bosom. She reached under the desk and produced a large ledger. She opened it and leaned closer, allowing the stranger an undisturbed view of the soft flesh straining against her bodice. She ran her tongue across her full lips as she studied the pages. Her cologne was sweet-smelling.

You looking for a single room?

I am, he said, placing his hat on the desk. He caught her gaze falling on the dust-covered, battered headgear, the slight down turning of her mouth, her accompanying look of disgust and he swiftly took it back. Two nights. With dinner.

And a bath? She sniffed but at least the smile returned.

That would be wonderful. Thank you. He watched as she produced a stubby pencil and lowered it towards the ledger. I met your husband. She stopped. He said to tell you I might—

Get a discount? She raised a single eyebrow. He waited. Her smile increased. Why, that’s just fine, Mister …?

The name’s Reece.

She recorded it in the ledger. It’s a dollar a night. So, for you, two nights will be one dollar fifty.

That’s mighty generous, ma’am.

I know it is.

Her eyes danced as she held his gaze. He felt his stomach lurch and a thrill ran through his scrotum. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d conversed with a female and certainly not one this alluring. How in the name of sanity had that old goat at the livery managed to marry someone so lovely? No wonder he was so worn out. A woman such as she could wear out any man.

Where you from, Mr Reece?

You need that for the register?

A slight flush appeared around her jawline. Why no, not exactly. But times being what they are and all …

Missouri.

Miss …? Her expression changed, a sudden veil of suspicion descending over her face. You ain’t …?

What? A Redleg on the run? Bushwhacker? Reece smiled. No, ma’am, I ain’t either. But I did serve and I’m on my way home if that’s what you’re asking.

Honestly speaking, I wasn’t, but seeing as you have been so gracious, I shall defer from asking you any more personal questions.

He went to respond but stopped when a large shadow blocked out the dismal light from the lamps. The woman stepped back, her eyes wide with alarm. Reece knew what this meant. It was the look of fear, one he’d seen all too often. Slowly, he turned around.

There were three of them, the man in the center large and angry looking, jacket pulled back to reveal a sagging paunch, hands on his hips close to the twin guns holstered there. One of the others Reece recognized as the man who had watched him emerging from the livery.

The big man cleared his throat. Miss Bessy may not have asked you your business here, mister, but I will.

Reece, leaning against the desk, scanned the three of them. The third, smaller but as mean-looking as a coyote on the hunt, held a rare Gibbs carbine in his hands. Impressed, Reece pressed his lips together. When he spoke, his gaze never left the breech loader. I’m resting up.

Resting up from what? The lean one asked this, his eyes narrowing, his shoulders tensing.

Travelling.

What the fu—

Hold it, Frank, said the large one, raising a hand to cut the other off, let’s just see what our visitor has to say for himself.

Reece didn’t feel as if he wanted to say anything, except telling these three bullies to back off before he bounced them down the street…but he didn’t. Instead, he drew in a breath, forced a smile. I’m going home, said Reece. I got my discharge papers. You wanna read ‘em?

The big man tilted his head. Discharge papers? Mister, we get all sorts coming through here and most ain’t welcome. You have the look of someone who looks for trouble. You can leave tomorrow. First thing.

Henry, he’s but just paid for two night’s bed and board. Bessy’s voice came to Reece as if borne on the wings of angels.

Refund him the diff, said Henry.

Reece pushed himself from the edge of the desk and looked from one man to the next. You got any authority to put your weight around the way you do?

This is the only authority we need, said the one holding the Gibbs. He waved it in Reece’s general direction.

I hope that’s loaded, said Reece.

It is.

Good. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself by squeezing the trigger on an empty breech.

Mister, breathed Henry, I don’t much like your tone.

And I don’t like yours. Now, who in the hell are you to confront me like this, all tied-down guns and cavalry carbines?

Behind him, Bessy’s voice sounded smooth and friendly when she said, Henry, why not just go back to Mister Quince and tell him Mr Reece here is only passing through. We can then all take our supper, get a good night’s sleep, and get ready for another day in paradise.

The little weasel snorted, Frank guffawed, and Henry blew out his cheeks.

For a long time, nobody said anything until Henry, at last, let his coattails fall across his gut and, with a nod towards Reece, growled. Just you keep that Remington in its holster until you leave, mister.

Reece nodded and watched them go.

From behind, Miss Bessy released a long sigh. Why don’t I run you that bath, Mr Reece? Then we can all relax a little. What d’you say?

Reece turned. I’d say that sounds just perfect, Miss Bessy.

Bessy is just fine, Mr Reece.

And with that, he followed her through the rear door which led to the narrow staircase and the waiting guestrooms.

CHAPTER TWO

Quince was in his study, poring over a collection of papers strewn over the top of his large desk. He did not look up as someone rapped gently on the door before putting their head around and saying, Excuse the interruption, Mr Quince.

Come in Henry. Take a seat. Take some coffee if you wish.

Henry stepped inside. He stood still, eyed the coffee pot holding down some of the papers, and declined.

Eventually, after studying a large map for some time, Quince looked up. Well, what is it?

A stranger, Mr Quince. Frank saw him coming out of the livery late last evening. Frank said he was wearing a Remington Army and looked as mean as a rattler. We confronted him at Miss Bessy’s.

Quince, leaning forward across the desk, considered Henry for a while. Henry grew uncomfortable under his employer’s gaze and shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He had settled his hat in front of his ample belly, gripping it with both hands. He now ran the brim through his fingers. Quince continued to stare. Henry coughed, ran a trembling hand through his hair, and got away from those damned eyes by looking at a large painting on the wall beside him.

Who was he?

Henry turned, drew in a breath. He struck me as being—

A lawman?

Well, I couldn’t exactly say for sure, Mr Quince. He was covered in dust and looked as though he’d been riding for days, if not weeks. I didn’t notice any—

Badge? He didn’t wear a badge?

No, sir.

And his clothes? Dusty you say, but a suit? Dark grey, formal?

No, sir. Range clothes. Shirt, rough pants, leather gloves in his belt. Gun belt that is. Like I said, Remington Army. Cavalryman’s gun. Federal cavalry, sir.

There’ll be plenty of them moving through right enough. From both sides. We need to be watchful, Henry. And marshals. Pinkertons maybe. I don’t want no lawman poking his nose in, you understand?

Indeed, I do, sir, which is why I followed him to Miss Bessy’s. Confronted him.

And what were your impressions?

I did not take him to be with the law, Mr Quince. He seemed too … I don’t know, just a feeling I got.

You fought in the War, Henry. You witnessed a lot of bad things. You must have some idea of who he might be.

A man not easily spooked, Mr Quince. As if he were used to it. Threats, I mean.

You threatened him? Henry, that’s not the best course to take with men like that. If he is ex-army, he could be as tough as Hell.

So is we, Mr Quince.

I know that Henry, but Frank is a hothead, miffed that he didn’t get a chance to fight before Appomattox put an end to it.

As are a lot of the boys, sir.

That’s as maybe but we have to maintain a modicum of control, Henry. I don’t want my plans compromised by any gunplay. You understand me?

Yes, sir, indeed I do, sir.

Good. Quince pulled himself up straight. You think this stranger is gonna be trouble?

Not sure, sir. He certainly did not take kindly to being asked questions.

Well, that’s his right, I reckon. No need to push, Henry.

No, sir.

But if he pushes back perhaps you could put him straight.

A tiny frown creased Henry’s forehead. Run him out of town, you mean?

With a fly in his ear, yes. But if he’s a lawman … He turned, stood up, and crossed the room to the large bay window that looked out across his manicured lawn. He watched Radcliffe, one of his servants, trimming the grass. He liked that. It gave him a sense of comfort knowing that life continued unabated despite the uncertainties that peace had brought to his land, his business. We have to be careful, Henry. If he is the law, he may only be a vanguard. We have to make sure he doesn’t stumble upon anything. Suspicions must not be raised.

But how would he know anything, Mr Quince?

Easily. A misplaced word in a crowded saloon, a drunken lout’s revelations about what we are doing here … Keep an eye on him, Henry. But from a distance. He turned. Be wary, Henry. Cautious. Patient. And tell Frank to keep that waggling tongue of his in his head.

Yes, sir, Mr Quince.

Now go get yourself something to eat. Me, I still have to work out if there’s another way into those old mines.

Henry gave a slight bow, turned, and left.

Quince stared at the closed door. He hoped, no, prayed that the stranger, whoever he was, proved not to be anything more than a passer-by. Anything else would need to be met with consequences. If the War had taught Quince anything it was that violence always paid.

CHAPTER THREE

Reece ate his breakfast in a small, cramped, and smoke-filled room in which three tiny tables were crammed together. Each was covered with an intricately woven lace cloth of the most startling white. Miss Bessy certainly took great pride in her establishment, no matter how minuscule it may be.

Running a piece of bread around the edge of his plate, Reece sat back and felt more relaxed than he had for many long months.

The man in the corner, a travelling salesman by the cut of his tweed suit and Derby-hat placed next to his elbow, puffed on a fat cigar, his fat cheeks glowing with grease from his morning bacon. He beamed across to Reece. Gonna be a beautiful day once again, he said.

I suspect so.

My name’s Bourne. You here on business? Without waiting for a reply, the man plunged on. Mine takes me everywhere now that the West is opening up like never before. Thank the Lord the War did not cause as much deprivation out here as it may have done.

I reckon it caused enough elsewhere.

Ah, yes, yes of course, but what I’m referring to, forgive me, is the excesses of violence visited upon the likes of Fredericksburg and Atlanta. And now, with Johnson’s so-called Reconstruction plans, I can see any peaceful designs for reconciliation causing nothing but more trouble. Don’t you think?

Reece didn’t think. He’d fought for too long to think about much else but his own survival.

Rolling his cigar between finger and thumb, the man’s eyes narrowed. Are you a southern gentleman, may I ask?

"I ain’t ever considered myself as anything but a man, mister. Southern or otherwise. It’s all the same to me."

Is it really?

Yes, it is. I’ve met enough mean-minded gentlemen from both sides to know that such a word don’t mean diddly if it ain’t accompanied by actions.

The other’s cheery face grew dark. I see. He turned his head slightly as he picked up his coffee cup and drank in silence for a moment. He smacked his lips when he finished and settled the cup back on its saucer. If you’re from the North, my advice would be to refrain from being too critical of our ways.

"Our ways?"

The ways of the South, sir.

Ah, yes. What exactly might those ways be?

Hospitality, good manners. Good breeding.

"Like keeping good men confined, you mean? Working long hours on plantations underneath the burning sun, not paying them a single cent? Is that what you mean?"

Bourne clenched his jaw and was about to speak when Miss Bessy breezed in, smoothing down the front of her apron, her smile as bright as the morning itself. She reacted to the chilly atmosphere instantly, stopped, and looked with some concern towards Reece. I hope you and Mr Bourne are getting on famously, Mr Reece.

As if we’d known one another all our lives.

She gave him a quizzical look as if she didn’t quite believe him, crossed towards Bourne, and busied herself tidying away the detritus of his breakfast. Will you be checking out early, Mr Bourne.

I have a couple of appointments further west, so yes I shall be leaving in under an hour or so.

Well, it’s been a real pleasure having you stay. Perhaps you will call in again on your return journey. To Saint Louis was it?

He glanced across to Reece. "Louisville, Miss Bessy."

Ah yes, how silly of me. She straightened up, her arms full of plates. I’ll make up your bill.

As she passed Reece, she flashed him a smile. And you, Mr Reece?

Another night, I reckon.

That would be grand.

Your husband, Miss Bessy? Is he around?

Appalled, her face lost all of its color. My husband?

Yes, I was wondering if I might have a word with him that is all. My bridle, it’s showing signs of wear and I was wondering if he could point me in the way of a reliable blacksmith.

Oh yes, I see. Her smile returned. Let me just get rid of these dishes and I’ll be right with you.

She left and Reece returned to contemplating his coffee cup. He sensed Bourne stand up but did not bother looking. Until that is, the man paused beside him. He tilted back his head and held the man’s icy stare. You got a problem, Mr Bourne?

Seems like you is the one with the problem. He pulled back his coat. In his belt was stuffed a pearly-handled revolver. I was making polite conversation, but you took it upon yourself to be offensive. I do not respond kindly to such a tone.

Is that so? Well, let me say, in my defense of course, that I did not find your conversation particularly welcoming. I chose, therefore, to ignore it. As indeed I’d like to ignore you.

I don’t expect to be seeing you again, mister, and I can say it won’t be a moment too soon.

You might consider closing your coat when you speak to me, Bourne. I surely hope you know how to use that thing.

I do, sir. I served for the Confederacy during the hostilities and saw action many times.

Nodding, Reece lowered his gaze. Still, I do not react kindly to intimidation, so I’ll ask you to close your coat and say ‘good morning’ to you.

I’ve seen your like before, mister whatever your name is. Northern trash, marching through our land as if you own it. Let me tell you, there’ll be a reckoning soon enough. Then you won’t be so cocky.

A reckoning? Like at Gettysburg, you mean? Reece gave a wry smile. Good morning, Mr Bourne.

Bourne snorted, turned, and strode out. Reece listened to Miss Bessy greeting him in her usual cheery tones, then to his stomping up the stairs to his room, the sound receding until Reece could hear it no more. He blew out a long sigh, took his coat from the back of the chair and stood up.

He found Miss Bessy busy at work behind the reception desk. No doubt she was preparing Bourne’s bill. She looked up as he approached. Off somewhere, Mr Reece? You never did tell me what your business was here in Whitewater.

Is that what this place is called?

Comes from the name the Cheyenne give to the river some two miles from here. A stream runs off it, feeds the old mine. It runs white in the winter. Some believe it is named after the man who found the town. His name was White, you see. But that isn’t so. She smiled. You won’t be needing your coat, Mr Reece. It’s going to be another scorcher. If you leave it behind, I can clean and press it for you.

That’s very kind.

It’s no trouble.

Before handing it across to her, Reece delved inside and pulled out a folded, tattered piece of paper. Your husband, Miss Bessy? Is he around?

Again, that slightly startled look as she took his coat and draped it over one arm. He … truth is, Mr Reece, he didn’t come home last night.

Oh. I was hoping to talk to him about that bridle.

I can point you in the direction of Noah Barton’s smithy, that’s no trouble.

Thank you.

They went to the door of the little guesthouse and stood together for a moment, under the porch. She was right. It was already oppressively hot. Even so, there were people in the street. Groups of men were dotted around the main thoroughfare, which was nothing more than a rutted track with most of the town’s buildings set along one side, with a bank and timber yard opposite. On both sides were rolling, low-lying hills topped with towering pines. Loitering in front of a small lumber agent’s office were three men, roughly dressed in filthy work clothes. They wore dark expressions and were passing around a stone jug. Clearly business was slow given the heat and they no doubt filled their day with drinking and idle talk. Beyond them, a dilapidated building sporting an impressive sign informing the world this was a baker’s shop, with a general store attached. Next to that a saloon of sorts and a cluster of smaller wooden buildings, more shacks than anything else, which seemed to supply the small town with everything it would ever need. At the far end, the blacksmith’s, black smoke belching out from a stone chimney at the side.

I guess it wouldn’t be amiss of me to say this town has seen better days.

She gave a short laugh. Mister Reece, this town never had better days! It’s always been a place you didn’t want to stay in.

So why are you here?

She shrugged. That’s a long story.

They looked at one another. This close, breathing in her perfume, Reece could see how attractive she was, her face youthful, her skin unblemished, those eyes so inviting. He breathed through his mouth and turned away feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. Maybe you could tell it to me?

Maybe I could. After supper perhaps?

He snapped his head around. And your husband?

Oh, don’t worry about him, Mr Reece. I doubt I’ll be seeing him for a few days. Her eyes wrinkled up mischievously, My life is somewhat predictable, Mr Reece, and the most predictable thing of all is my husband’s regular insobriety. Well, she patted Reece’s coat, I’ll go and sponge this clean for you. You have a pleasant day, Mr Reece.

He tipped his hat and watched her disappear inside.

An after-supper chat with such a fine-looking woman was just what he needed, he thought to himself. Smiling, he stepped down into the street and strolled towards the blacksmith.

CHAPTER FOUR

Before pulling on his boots, Henry checked the inside, tapping out anything that may have been lurking in the snug darkness. This was an old habit he’d picked up on the range when he was not much more than a boy. Scorpions loved to curl up in the safety of a boot’s interior and when he’d witnessed a man called Mitchel screaming after one of the little devils had pierced the sole of his foot, Henry always went through his morning ritual. Mitchel had died in agony some days later, consumed with pain, not even aware of who he was. Old Bill Spade, the wise cook who could rustle up anything from nothing, told everyone that some folk simply reacted badly to certain bites and stings. Whereas some could laugh them off, the poor unfortunate ones, like Mitchel, took it bad and died. I seen it more than once, old Spade told them as they sat around the campfire one evening, slurping up spoonsful of hot slurry the cook had made for supper. "I’m