Came a man to Sweetwater
By
Peter G Bailey
Smashwords Edition
Published by:
Peter G Bailey at Smashwords
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Copyright 2011 by Peter G Bailey
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of
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without a similar condition including this condition being
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The moral right of Peter G Bailey has been asserted
First published in Great Britain by PG Publishing
ISBN978-0-9569572-2-1
First published electronically in Great Britain by Amazon in 2011.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to any person, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
A catalogued record for all published eBooks is held in the British Library.
Dedication:- Although no cowgirl Joy would look wonderful wearing a Stetson and riding boots while sat on a horse – no guns though.
Two paragraph synopsis:
A cowboy decides that the only way to get rich is to rob a bank. The decision was easy to make, but the achievement takes some doing.
Synopsis and Cover Blurb:
Harbouring an ambition to rob the bank in the Nevada town of Sweetwater in 1876, footloose social dropout Beaumont Kimberley has no idea how to accomplish the task, or what difficulties he faced, until he is unexpectedly asked to replace Sheriff Cotton. His first civic duty is to hang a convicted murdered. Unconvinced of the man’s guilt he tries to delay the execution, but the prisoner is hung in his absence.
Struggling to fill a dead man’s boots things worsen when he arrests a drunken cowboy for murder and finds the town is against him.
Mineral speculator Berkley Hurst arriving in town carrying a load of money, adds problems when Kimberley discovers bars hidden at the banker’s house and decides to steal them. The attempt almost fails. The bank robbery is more successful, but the gang fall out.
Returning to Sweetwater after selling the stolen gold Kimberley finds the bank manager has been shot dead by two hired assassins. Judge Devlin praises Kimberley for killing them both and makes him a trustee of the bank he has just robbed. As a further distinction the local newspaper campaigns to elect him mayor, an honour he could well do without as he prepares to marry Hennie and wait until the missing gold and money is forgotten.
Contents:-
Chapter - One A Man rides in.
Chapter - Two The Sheriff Takes the Strain.
Chapter - Three Laura.
Chapter - Four Plenty.
Chapter - Five The Bank’s Business.
Chapter - Six Luke Benson.
Chapter - Seven The Hunt.
Chapter - Eight Day’s End.
Chapter - Nine The Trial.
Chapter - Ten The Rodeo.
Chapter - Eleven Ben Mackie Rides Out.
Chapter - Twelve Samarkand.
Came a man to Sweetwater
Chapter One
A Man Rides in.
Sweetwater, Nevada, August 1876
Beauchamp Kimberley had no need to prompt his horse to stop. In front of them yawned a stomach-churning drop of several hundred feet no sane horse was going to step into.
‘That’s some view, ain’t it?’ He remarked as he leaned forward to pat his hot horse’s neck. It had been a hard slog up a long rough slope only to find the route led nowhere either of them wanted to go.
Breathing heavily his horse stood with ears pricked forward curiously. He wanted a drink and could sense abundant water in a broad lake on the valley floor below them, a sight tempting his equine attention rather more than the wide tree filled mountain rimmed valley below him. After days spent travelling around the edge of the Great Nevada Basin where nothing green and fertile grew except scrub oaks, cactus, tumbleweed and the grey-green vegetation that gave Nevada its nickname ‘the Sagebrush State’ water had overwhelming appeal. The unrelenting landscape was broken only by splashes of colour provided by yucca and the unreliable cactus when in bloom. Some cacti bloomed once every seven years and no one waited around in that hostile country long enough to admire a colour different to brown and more brown.
Whatever water fell on the high peaks of the Shoshone, Independence and Monitor mountain ranges the horse and rider had ridden through had not hindered their progress as they drank sparingly from the precious water supplies carried with them. Now a great pool of it lay almost within touching distance.
Sitting relaxed in the saddle the rider could not smell the water but he could certainly detect the fresh greenness of growing vegetation as its various fragrances wafted up to him on warm air currents driven by a soft breeze from the distant smoke grey mountains.
He guessed there would be snow on the highest peaks even at this late month of the year because that is where Nevada got its Spanish name of ‘Snow capped Mountain Range’ the but most peaks were too far distant to see such detail even in the clear mountain air.
‘It’ll be cooler down there,’ he promised his mount as his gaze quartered the extensive view.
Alongside the lake ran a dusty trail, the same trail he had been following before deciding, for no good reason he could think of now, to take the high route. The lakeside trail appeared as a brown line crossing the grass covered bottom lands as it occasionally disappearing into thick clumps of yellow pine and juniper before vanishing altogether in the direction of a large town he could just see in the middle distance. That would be Sweetwater his destination. He did not share the information with the horse whose single-minded attention was exclusively fixed on eating, drinking and over-heated horses of the opposite sex.
The rider’s wandering attention settled on a high-sided wagon pulled by four horses lumbering slowly along the trail towards Sweetwater. His horse knew the draught animals very well. They had been companions for nearly four weeks, although vastly inferior in breeding, pedigree and physique to Kimberley’s pure bred, white, Austrian Lippizzano, a stallion he stole from his father’s prize stud when he left home in parental disgrace. The men driving the wagon were two Mexican friends of his, a father and son, although that association would not be openly acknowledged in Sweetwater.
Further behind the slow-moving wagon rode an equally leisurely rider, a cowboy, Kimberley judged from his long distance observation. Both moved across the landscape at a snail’s pace, an illusion of height and distance. Apart from those sightings he could see no other humans, although again, the distance was too great to identify such small objects in a land so huge and distances so great. Groups of dark coloured cattle grazed amongst the trees, but that was to be expected in a cattle-raising oasis surrounded by barren lands. Further to his right, and almost cutting the valley in two, he could see the twin shiny rail lines of the Western Pacific Railway. The cost of running a railway over vast mountains deserts did not seem to justify the expense, but the valley stretching before him, besides being rich in grazing and timber, contained one of most profitable mineral mines yet discovered in developing America. Every month, gold, silver, tin, copper, lead, zinc, mercury, barite, tungsten and vast quantities of base metals were clawed from the mountains and transported west to San Francisco and East to New York. Most of the ranches and smallholdings scattered across the valley floor existed there because of the mines, as did the township of Sweetwater. Coal, in commercial quantities, had also been discovered with most of the output of the shallow draught mines going to replenishing the normally wood-burning trains after their exhausting climb through the mountain passes. Coal also heated Sweetwater homes and businesses in the bitterly cold winters where the temperature routinely plunged many degrees below freezing.
The railway line followed the old fur trapper and gold miners trail as they in turn followed the Humbolt River, one end of which started in the Pequop Mountains in the East and finished near the Carson Sink in the Trinity Mountain range in the West. At that point the water disappeared underground without trace, although it might reappear as one of the many lakes and springs like Winnemucca and the Mud Lakes, or more permanently as the Pyramid Lake. When it reappeared the Humbolt might even supply water to the Trucket River running through Reno, or even the Carson River running through the state capital of Carson City, or it could just evaporate into the arid air of the mountainous regions of Nevada a place reputed to be one of the driest areas in America. To the south of the Armagosa Range lay the notorious Death Valley; a place said to receive no measurable rain for years on end. Water in motion did strange things and wound through many places as it sought a sinuous route to its lowest point, the sea.
‘OK, horse we got two choices,’ Kimberley informed his mount conversationally after his long perusal of the countryside. ‘We either go straight down to the water and drink our fill, or we turn round and head back the way we came.’ He grimaced at the unattractive choice. ‘That way we won’t see water before nightfall.’
As he spoke the white horse flicked one ear backwards as though understanding the comments before snorting and tossing its head as it backed away from the edge of the steep slope and the sight of the glittering lake. Straight down held no appeal to him and the retreat gesture made his point.
‘I thought you’d go for the short cut,’ Kimberley observed cynically as he flicked the reins impatiently to indicate a contrary view, a four-hour ride over the dry rough ground they had already travelled had no appeal, nor did a raging thirst and an empty water bottle. ‘Let’s go!’
With those uncompromising words he urged the horse forward with gentle prods of rowelled spurs and encouraging flicks of the reins, but the unwilling horse laid its ears back and began mincing uncertainly with wild rolling eyes as he resisted the pressure to commit equine suicide. He wanted to turn away from the steep drop, but his rider wanted the opposite. For a long moment a clash of wills fought for supremacy, horse or man?
‘Get going you stupid animal, it’s an interesting slide all the way to the bottom and it saves walking.’
Horse and rider teetered nervously on the edge of the ten foot drop to the loose scree that stretched, except for a few huge boulders and clumps of struggling scrub all the way to the valley floor below. If the descent succeeded and the horse managed to keep upright and the rider managed to stay in the saddle, the two would emerge dusty, triumphant and exhilarated not far from the water’s edge. The risk seemed worth while only because the rider disliked the only other choice.
Urged forward by a robust combination of spur, shouted curses and the waving of a white sweat stained Stetson about its ears, the horse inched towards the edge and then, as though accepting inevitable death, or by calculating that the jump and slide were within its capabilities the animal sprung forward on stiffening legs into a desperate flight lasting no longer than a tenth of a second, but it seemed an age. Gripping the saddle with knees and the pommel with his free hand the rider clung on fiercely knowing that if he fell he would roll and slide all the way to the bottom, a fate that did not bear thinking about, especially if the horse fell on top of him. Not only would that break every bone in his body the scree would grate every ounce of flesh and skin from his shattered remains.
With an unerring sense of self-preservation the horse dropped the short distance and landed on all four feet, a landing absorbed by trek hardened muscle, flexible sinew and the loose scree.
Fighting for its head the animal sat back on its haunches as the surface began sliding downwards in a great grey raft of stones chippings. The speed was not great, no faster than a gentle trot, and after a few seconds of this unusual mode of travel its ears went forwards and panicky eyes began searching to avoid the larger boulders they floated effortlessly past.
In the saddle Kimberley could do no more than let his mount do all that was necessary for mutual survival.
Almost before the rider could catch a breath of the dust-laden air billowing in their wake they reached firm flat ground. There, snorting and tossing its head in annoyance at the indignity just suffered; the horse began prancing with the high stepping gait peculiar to his breed. He wanted to show the world that the dramatic descent was his normal way of getting to fresh water quickly and he had achieved that in regal style.
Emerging from the overtaking dust cloud more shaken than he cared to admit Kimberley replaced his hat and began beating the dust off his trail stained clothing.
Without prompting the horse covered the short distance to the edge of the water and after lowering its white and pink muzzle into the fresh smelling water began drinking in great thirsty gulps.
Slipping thankfully from the saddle he joined his mount. Throwing off his hat he thrust his dusty face under the cold surface and revelled in the taste and luxury of the first fresh water drunk in two days. His saddle water bag held the last few drops of brackish liquid collected from a dubious dried river sump way out in the desert. That would not be needed now and could be consigned to where it came from - the ground.
After drinking his fill Kimberley rolled on to his side and looked around him from ground level. It was cool by the lake and the greenery around the edge restful to his sun jaded eyes.
‘There, I told you it would be easy,’ he informed his still drinking mount. In response the animal lashed out a back hoof in a sign that might have indicated disbelieving indignation at such a casual comment, or intense irritation at the arrival of aggressive insect life that had been almost absent in the dry deserts. At the water’s edge insect life was thick, bothersome and aggressive.
While on the ground Kimberley inspected his mount’s hooves and was pleased to find all four shoes intact. Nothing but dignity had been cast aside in the headlong descent.
Satisfied with his own and his horse’s well-being he stood up collected his water container and refilled it after swilling the insides clean of its unsavoury contents. He did this even though the township of Sweetwater lay not far away, but after several days on short water rations where the moisture starved mind returned again and again to dreams of oases and fountains of glittering sprays he had no intention of extending that agony in case Sweetwater had gone dry.
For a moment he considered lighting a fire and brewing some coffee, but the nearness of the town quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Instead, he decided to improve his trail-dusty appearance. No one took kindly to an unsavoury saddle tramp asking for accommodation in a respectable hotel or boarding house, and that’s what he needed after many nights spent sleeping under the stars. As he set about improving his appearance the horse began chomping at the fresh green waterside grass, a luxury not tasted for many days. He ate hastily knowing his rider would not let him eat too much of the colic inducing vegetation.
Satisfied that he looked presentable for most occasions Kimberley gathered up the reins of his mount, replaced his water container and washing kit in one of the saddle panniers and remounted.
‘Let’s get ourselves something to eat and somewhere to rest where the stars don’t shine and it ain’t so doggone cold round about dawn,’ he muttered as he pulled his mount’s head up from snatching a few last mouthfuls of grass and turned it towards the trail seen from the rim above their heads. From the rim the trail did not appear far from the lake and so it proved. ‘Might even find me a chippie to keep me warm through the night,’ he added as an afterthought. A long time spent on the trail did that to a fellow’s lustful inclinations.
They trotted a short distance before emerging on the dirt road just as the lone rider they had seen from the rim loped into view. He seemed to be in no hurry from the ridge and did not seem anxious to complete his journey as he drew level.
The two men regarded each other warily. Human beings were not plentiful in the vastness of Nevada and some had acquired eccentric social habits, like drawing a gun and shooting first and asking questions later, an unfortunate habit that shortened life for some, but prolonged it for those astute enough to keep a tight lip and practise a fast draw. Both men rested their hands lightly on the pommels of their saddles in an accepted peaceful gesture.
‘The last guys who tried that way of coming down the mountain didn’t do as well as you,’ the newcomer remarked jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the rim without removing his attention from Kimberley. The rider was young, probably in his late twenties but a hard life punching cows added years to anyone unfortunate enough to follow that trade and the newcomer obviously did. He rode a working horse, sat on a working saddle with a well-used rope and short barrelled rifle attached. The only odd thing about him was the tidy Sunday clothes worn on a Tuesday. He was also close shaven, a cosmetic nicety cowboys universally ignored unless hitting the town on their monthly spending bonanza. ‘They’re buried right over there,’ he concluded indicating a nearby stand of trees.
Kimberley did not look in either direction. Turning his head would give the stranger a chance to drop a hand to his gun.
‘They didn’t make it?’ he asked rhetorically.
The two horses did no more than accept the other’s presence before looking away with bored eyes. They were both stallions.
‘Guess not,’ the rider continued. ‘But then they were Indians being chased by some mighty het up white folk who figured they were responsible for some unpleasant mayhem around the place. The Indians had to jump, or be strung up. Pretty poor cards to have in your hand in a situation like that.’ He removed his hat to wipe his forehead on the sleeve of the powder blue cotton shirt he wore. ‘Could do with some rain,’ he volunteered as he replaced his hat one-handed and patted the crown to make sure it sat firmly over the dark oil-slicked hair. Across the short distance separating the two men Kimberly could detect the aroma of perfume. That cowpoke was out to impress, but was he visiting, or returning from a tryst? From the direction he travelled there was nothing but desert and some religious dirt farmers that kept their girls well away from smelly cowpokes who fancied anything presentable in skirts. This cowpoke was heading for Sweetwater a much more productive place for sparking, especially midweek when working cowhands would be out on the range and well away from temptations of the flesh. Such an enterprising swain could have the town and all its spare girls to himself.
‘They all jumped?’ Kimberley asked.
‘Every dang one of them,’ the cowboy confirmed. ‘They reckoned by the time the bodies rolled to the bottom of the slope there weren’t no flesh left on any of them. The posse buried a handful of bones over by those trees, and not to deeply I heard.’
‘Just as well I came down on the back of this stupid horse then,’ Kimberley remarked wryly. ‘Did the mayhem stop?’
‘Not that I heard, but then you’d have to string up every Goddamed redskin in the country to prove they weren’t up to some villainy or another: even then they got spirits that walk around in the afterlife doing mischief.’ The speaker looked at Kimberley with dark eyes over lips parted in a slight smile. ‘You weren’t escape from some of that mayhem, were you? The name’s Ben Mackie by the way.’
‘Beauchamp Kimberley, Beau to my friends, Mister to everyone else,’ Kimberley informed him unsmilingly. The two men regarded each other for a long moment before Mackie kicked his horse close enough to offer a hand in friendship.
Kimberley grinned as he leaned forward to grip the rough scrubbed hand, a worker’s hand, not one a lady would like pawing her softer bits for any longer than needed to complete its business.
Most westerners did not ask direct questions, they preferred to approach a subject by circuitous means. Mackie would never ask where Kimberley came from before appearing at the top of a ridge where not many people ventured unless being chased by irate farmers armed with guns and big sticks. That was his business. By weaving a tale, that might, or might not, be true, Mackie could sneak a semi-jocular enquiry into the conversation leaving Kimberley to ignore it or respond with a comment equally as flippant.
‘Seeing those two hawglegs around your middle I sure hope to be listed somewhere on your list of friends Mr Kimberley.’ Mackie’s smiled placatingly. ‘Sheriff Cotton sure didn’t like people carrying too much hardware around town, but then I guess his opinion don’t count for much any more, not since he got himself stiffed.’
‘That was a mite careless of him,’ Kimberley responded unsympathetically. He turned his horse in the direction of Sweetwater and kicked it into motion. It was time to be moving if he wanted to reach town before dark. If the two men were travelling that way they could talk as they rode rather than waste daylight hours chewing the cud by the side of a dirt roadway.
‘Don’t think Jake knew much about it,’ Mackie went on once the two horses settled into a gentle canter beside each other. ‘His horse put a leg in a gopher hole and he sort of landed on his neck.’
‘Painful!’
‘Was for him. It broke. He laid out on the prairie three days before anyone missed him, then Tall Pine brought him in.’
‘Tall Pine? Any relation to the galoots who ran into trouble back there on the scree slope?’
Mackie shrugged. ‘If there is, he’s keeping mighty quiet about it, but then not many people would want to upset him, he’s a real mean redskin, and big, although I ain’t heard anyone say much against him, least ways, not in his hearing.’
‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep my redskin jokes to myself in case I get carried in from the range with loose head on my shoulders.’
‘Hey! No one said he had anything to do with Cotton’s death. He just brought him in before the coyotes finished the rest of him for dinner. Tall Pine knows everything that goes on out there on the Benson place.’
‘That one of the ranches?’
‘The biggest, apart from the Meredith’s Flying ‘M’, but they don’t count no more. Not since ‘Blaze’ Meredith cashed in his chips.’
‘Another broken neck?’
‘Hell no, he died in bed back in Washington as they tell it. He was one of the Nevada Senators, always ranting and raving about something. That’s why they called him ‘Blaze’. He shot from the lip and didn’t do no apologising afterwards. Guess he heaped more aggravation around the White House than his heart could stand. He died ranting for a better price for Nevada silver, a subject he never tired of airing since he owned most of the silver and gold producing land in the valley.’
‘That why he sold up his ranching interests?’
‘He sold nothing, never did, apart from his soul for the gold and silver.’ They rode on for while in silence. ‘Fact is, his wife went a bit simple after his death and the ranching side sort of went to pieces.’
‘No relatives to carry on the good work?’
‘Sure, a rather classy filly, Gilda Meredith, but she spends all her time out east. We ain’t seen her in the valley since the old man passed on. Heard tell she married a rich banker and they’re coming back here to live, least ways they’re building a mansion just outside town. They say it’s going to look like some of those places they got back east around Washington and Richmond with white pillars and picket fences all round. I drive out to there sometimes to deliver material brought in by train.’
‘You deliver goods?’ Kimberley asked. ‘You don’t punch cows?’
Mackie grinned. He had an easy grin that lit his face with boyish charm. He might not suit a real lady but Kimberley could see how he might fascinate some into giving him the time of day.
‘Not any more. I used to wrangle on the ‘Flying M’, but left once I started courting over to Gethsemane; or the Garden City as the brethren like to call it. I can now court and work without killing myself.’
‘That the religious place a ways back?’
‘Sure is.’
‘They let you mess with their women?’ Kimberley asked guardedly. ‘I thought they took a pitchfork to your private parts if you as much a winked at their fillies, although I don’t recall reading anywhere in the bible that gives bible bashers those rights.’
He brushed some persistent midges from in front of his face. They were a nuisance around water and the lake was not far behind them.
‘They get real tetchy if they think you’re teasing and filling your boots in the hay loft, but if you go about it the way they figure courting should be done, there ain’t no problem. I get on real well with Rebecca’s family.’
‘You named the day yet then?’
‘Name the day? Hell no! There’s one or two loyalty tests to go through before that, leastways that’s what I figure they are. I have to court Rebecca seriously for two years and during that time I have to save enough to buy my own farmstead with enough left over to keep a wife and family for another two years while I get established.’ Mackie sighed discontentedly. ‘It’s a real trial, but I guess Rebecca’s worth it. She’s a right good looker.’
‘She keeps you away from the bar girls in Sweetwater then?’ Kimberley observed.
‘And the whisky and cards, all that’s forbidden.’ Mackie shook his head despondently. ‘Jeez, I hate to think what I’m giving up for the love of a good woman.’
‘Married folk tell me it’s all worthwhile,’ Kimberley assured him with a cynical grin. ‘Course, I got no first-hand experience of the subject myself, but some I know’s look well content with the life, and others...’ he shrugged letting the inference die in the quiet of the mid-afternoon heat.
‘That’s what I hear tell too,’ Mackie agreed. ‘But a man’s got to do what his balls tell him. If we were bulls we could be doing it all over the range every year instead of when her old man says we can.’
‘Sounds as though you’re missing the gentler things in life,’ Kimberley observed kindly.
‘Like I said, Rebecca’s worth it.’ Mackie smiled as though trying to convince himself that all his recent hardships would find their reward between the rough sheets of a hard-won bed on a hard-won homestead. ‘Say that’s a right smart horse you’re riding,’ he volunteered approvingly in a dramatic change of subject. ‘Too good to be throwing off the bluff as crowbait. Thoroughbred ain’t he? You could make a living putting him out to stud in Sweetwater, although some ain’t so keen on white horseflesh.’
‘It’s not him I want put out to stud,’ Kimberley responded sourly. ‘I could do with some of that action myself.’ He glanced sideways at his companion. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered apologetically as he leaned forward to pat the dusty white neck of his mount. ‘This crowbait ain’t at all smart in the head though. Any critter that jumps off a cliff that high is nothing but dumb crowbait in my book. I reckon he’s plumb crazy to do a thing like that.’
‘You mean you didn’t you kick him into it?’
‘Sure I did, but that don’t mean he had to do something as stupid as that. Would you put you hand in a blazing fire because someone kicked your butt?’
‘No, but then I know fire is kinda hot and it burns, a dumb horse only does what it’s told.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Yeah, sometimes,’ Mackie agreed dourly. ‘You after a job?’
He looked Kimberley over from head to foot noting the finely tooled leatherwork on his saddle, calf length boots and bridle. The clothes were more expensive than the average cowhand could afford to buy in a year of hard work, nor were they made for rough manual work. He also wore two pearl handled colts no working cowpoke could ever afford to buy. The soft hands shaken earlier told Mackie his companion was no working cowhand even though he dressed and spoke like one. This man had expensive tastes and presumably the funds to indulge them.
‘Work?’ Kimberley repeated doubtfully. ‘No, not really. I’m just dropping by for the rodeo.’
‘You’re a trifle premature for that,’ Mackie interjected. ‘That don’t happen around here until the fall and that’s two months off.’
‘You said you had a sheriff’s job vacant,’ Kimberley laughed humourlessly. ‘Maybe I’ll apply for that. I’ll just be careful about riding where gophers dig holes.’
‘That job won’t be on offer,’ Mackie assured him. ‘The mayor’ll have that filled with one of his cronies, something Sheriff Cotton never was come to think of it.’ He was more interested in the subject of the rodeo and quickly returned to the subject. ‘You ride then?’ He suggested before looking at the pearl handled colts enviously. ‘And shoot?’
That would explain the obvious expense, even if a cowboy could afford a set of fancy guns, he probably would not wear them for work. After all for a cowhand, a handgun was a working tool used to frighten bears, wolves, rattlesnakes and sometime rustlers. The owners were out in all weathers and the harsh conditions would soon reduce the value and appearance of such splendid weapons. The man beside him was plainly not a hired gun either. They looked mean and hard-bitten while this man had a pleasant sun tanned face more used to laughing and smiling than scowling and looking fierce, and the clothes he wore for travelling looked better than his own Sunday best, but strangely he carried no other baggage apart from a bed roll, rain slicker and short coat tied across two panniers behind his saddle. Kimberley had the appearance of travelling light and seemed odd since he and his horse bore all the evidence of having travelled a long way across the alkali deserts.
‘I don’t do much more than fork this bronc while he performs,’ Kimberley explained. He leaned forward to pat the other half of his team. ‘He does a few tricks to please the girls in the ring and I do a few to please them outside. He sort of puts them in a good mood.’
‘And the guns discourage irate husbands?’ Mackie suggested cynically.
‘Hey! If you’re messing with ladies married to short-fused husbands you’re playing with dynamite, cowboy,’ Kimberley informed his companion ironically. ‘There’s of girls plenty around without inviting some easily offended Jasper to come looking for you over the sights of a loaded Winchester. That’s the second fastest way to meet your maker after horse thieving.’
‘I heard that,’ Mackie agreed. He rode, like most cowboys with long stirrups that enabled him to stand comfortably while his mount rocked under him at a brisk canter. ‘If you ride in the show ring what you doing pushing your horse over a bluff like he were a piece of no account crowbait? He could have broken all his legs and yours too come to that.’
‘Prince Eugene break a leg?’ Kimberley scoffed. ‘Naw, these Austrian nags have stronger legs than elephants. Prancing around in shows ring for hundreds of years has thickened their bones and strengthened their legs.’ He grinned modestly. ‘Of cause jumping off cliff tops is not one of our party pieces. It just seemed a quick way of getting to the lake to quench our thirst, at least I thought that, the Prince wasn’t so keen.’
‘That what you call him? Prince Eugene? That’s might fancy but then he’s a mighty fancy horse, I guess,’ Mackie remarked admiringly.
‘I also call him other things, like useless, lazy and no-good crowbait, but most of the time he gets called that. The girls love a titled horse. They think the owner also comes from the aristocracy and nothing makes them swoon faster than being porked by a member of the nobility.’ Kimberley paused to glance sideways at his travelling companion. ‘So I heard tell,’ he added defensively.
‘Well, I guess they’ll be easy pickings around rodeo time,’ Mackie agreed. ‘The ladies come for miles around and sort of lose control of their knicker elastic after some of the events, so I’ve heard. For the last two years I’ve been pretty well tied up with the stockyards to worry about such matters.’
‘Besides courting.’
‘Yeah, that too.’
They cantered on a few miles chatting idly in the inconsequential way travellers do when they are unlikely to cross tracks again once reaching their destination.
‘Can you recommend a good bunking place in town?’ Kimberley asked as the first houses with gardens filled with vegetable crops and soft fruit came into view. ‘I’m likely to be around until after the rodeo so it needs to be cheap with plenty of good grub thrown in, and no bible punchers frowning at my choice of bed partner.’
He added the last because, although he knew religious people kept clean houses and offered plenty of plain food. They expected their lodgers to say mealtime grace, pray and have abstemious habits, none of which formed any part of his lifestyle. Life was hard enough without worrying about the next world where imaginative preachers promised fire and brimstone for eternity, neither option sounded attractive enough to forgo the pleasures of this life for.
‘Well, there’s several hotels,’ Mackie informed him thoughtfully. ‘And all the bars have sleeping accommodation, especially if you want to shack up with one or two of the bar girls...’
Kimberley grinned. ‘Might start on that for a few nights, but long term?’
‘Long term? Well there’s widder women around who’ll put up travellers and give them something to smile about in the morning so I’ve heard tell, but none can beat Hannie Spencer. She cooks like an angel, keeps the bed bugs under control and runs a spotless house. She’s a widder, but I heard tell she don’t go for any midnight trysts; leastways, I ain’t heard of anyone who got lucky in that department. She’s got a right pretty sixteen-year-old daughter though. They tell me she’s hot and randy, and I’ve heard tales of her having been laid by more than one enterprising cowboy at a time. She likes plenty kept in reserve, so they say, but since she’s been going steady with Luke Benson those tales have sort of dried up.’
‘Sort of possessive, this Luke Benson?’
‘Sort of hot-headed,’ Mackie agreed. ‘Wild, no account, spoilt and inconsiderate would better describe him, and if you throw in mean-spirited, mealy-mouthed, dishonest and arrogant, you begin to get some of the background character picture. Trouble is, if you mess with him, you mess with the whole Benson mob. Isaac’ll hear nothing said against his boy and his hands have been looking out for him since he stole his first lollipop from the grocery store. Getting his own way is a sort of habit now he’s grown enough to take a whacking for his antisocial behaviour and there’s plenty of folk who’d do that if they came across him without several sidekicks in tow.’
‘What about when he’s sparking Miss Hotpants? He ain’t got no support then?’
‘Like I said, she likes reserves and she’s hard to satisfy. His friends all dig in after he’s filled his boots, but who knows? We might do the lady a disservice if she only shakes hands with the lads and kisses them fondly on the cheek.’
Kimberley smiled thinly. ‘Sounds like a combination to steer clear of,’ he suggested.
Mackie glanced at the paucity of luggage carried on the white horse. ‘You don’t seem all that loaded down with clean shirts if you’re staying several weeks?’ he observed. His companion did not seem the prickly sort who took offence at answering personal questions. If he did their conversational exchanges would have been hostile and short-lived.
‘Sent it ahead,’ Kimberley informed him briefly. He nodded towards the two fresh wheel tracks they could see in the dust of the trail ahead of them. ‘I got lucky with a wagon going the same way. They took it on ahead.’
A few minutes later they came to the outskirts and then the town centre.
‘That’s ‘Day’s End’,’ Mackie said, nodding towards a grand two storey ranch style building near the edge of town. ‘That’s where our banker and mayor lives. Smart eh?’
Kimberley nodded his agreement but made no comment. He had seen bigger and better where he came from.
Sweetwater was not a large town, but then nothing was large in Nevada in 1876, except the mountains and the country. Nevada was a transit State people hurried through to reach California, or they stayed awhile to scratch the ground for mineral wealth before either striking it rich and moving east for better prospects or west to spend it, or if they found nothing in either place they followed the trail to the next Rainbow’s End. Nevada was not anyone’s dream of a final destination for their aged bones even if they did end up buried there.
Sweetwater consisted of a collection of buildings and residents servicing the mining industry, the cattle ranches and the many smallholdings dotting the rich valley floor. Two other ingredients made life agreeable there, plenty of snow fresh water and the newly opened railway.
Before gold and silver were discovered in the valley Sweetwater was no more than a collection of buildings set several hundreds of feet higher on the Nevada uplands than most others. Gold and silver changed that, although the town lay some distance from the diggings. To reach the expanding town for supplies and entertainment the miners made a long cross-country journey that became an expedition into alcoholic oblivion they cheerfully undertook once a month on pay day.
The coming of the railway trebled the town’s size as incorrigible optimists poured into the valley to try their luck alongside those who had been there longer. After a few years the town lost its ramshackled appearance and took on the semblance of permanence. Substantial houses and corporeal businesses rose in the suburbs as well as along the two main roads of the township. The town now boasted many civilised amenities, a bank, law courts and a resident judge, although he sometimes travelled to small communities to dispense his version of the law in those remote places. The town also attracted lawyers, doctors, a single dentist, a multi-grade school and several churches of different denominations, including Mormon, an active religion trying to establish a foundation across the mid-west, although their strict brand of religious observance and their penchant for taking more than one wife often led to unseemly friction with other religions. The Mormons eventually lost the battle of the faiths in Nevada and retreated to their main base in Salt Lake City, Utah.
If the corporate prosperity impressed Kimberley he remained silent as his companion pointed out examples of urban development and the latest in advanced living, all this to a man brought up as a judge’s son in Richmond, but Mackie was not to know that and he lacked the courage to enquire that closely into the details of a man’s past. Such enquiries fell outside the bounds of the casual trail acquaintenship struck less than an hour earlier.
Something Kimberley might have professed a nodding familiarity with had he been asked was the sensation of riding along Main Street surfaced with black asphalt. Mud, in the rainy season, was a problem faced by every household outside metropolitan areas of the United States, but Sweetwater had paved part of the commercial street, although the sidewalks remained wooden structures raised above street level for pedestrians to walk on without fouling their footwear and taking mess into bordering premises.
This advanced sophistication demonstrated the town council and elected officials’ confidence in the future, as did the brick bank, law courts and sheriff’s office, although the school and churches, along with most of the residential and business houses, remained timber built, a plentiful material found on the thickly wooded mountain slopes not far from the town. The pungent smell of newly sawn pine drifted permanently on the air from the piles of lumber waiting to be used locally or shipped to other parts of the United States on the newly commissioned cargo trains crossing the mountains to destinations both east and west.
‘This here’s the Wabuska Hotel,’ Mackie informed Kimberley needlessly as they pulled up at a newly white painted hitching rail. The name of the hotel was blazoned on a board several feet high in gold lettering across the second storey skyline. It also appeared in gold lettering on each of the downstairs windows. The name and purpose of the building could not be easily mistaken by a weary traveller looking for just such a place to eat and rest. The hotel clearly dealt with well-off town citizens and with disembarked train passengers taking a short break in the long overland journey. The genteel ambience and high prices kept the cowboys and miners looking elsewhere, as did the absence of too many congenial bar girls. The Wabuska had no need of such attractions and clients wishing to introduce gentle females of questionable morality into their high-class rooms were quickly invited to join them elsewhere. The Wabuska did not approve of such sordid conduct.
Without dismounting Mackie reeled off the names of several other hotels and saloons, most of which Kimberley could see from the back of his horse.
‘Where’s this Hannie Spencer place?’ he asked when his companion ran out of choices, or out of breath. ‘Figure I might call on her.’
Mackie grinned slyly. ‘Her daughter, Melony, works in the Wabuska as a chambermaid. If you’re looking for relaxation, you might get lucky there, if Luke’s not in town, that is. She’s a looker like her Maw down the street a piece, right handy to the sheriff’s office and the jail, come to think of it.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Kimberley said calmly. He seemed rather more interested in the layout of the town than in its randy residents. ‘First off, I must find my baggage or I’ll be sleeping under the sidewalk with the bar rats...’
‘Guess, I’ll be seeing you around then, Mister Kimberly,’ Mackie said finally when their short acquaintenship seemed about to end. ‘I work in the stockyards if you’re ever in that direction. I could fix you up with one of the railway broncs if you don’t want to wear out the one you’re riding before the rodeo, only don’t tell the president, he’s a might possessive about railway property.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.’ Kimberley nodded as Mackie touched the rim of his Sunday best Stetson and pulled his horse’s head away from the rail and urged it forward.
Kimberley watched him ride away. He liked the talkative wrangler but it was unlikely that he would seek out his company again, unless they fell over each other in one of the many saloons dotted around the town, although that might be unlikely since Mackie seemed keen on saving his money for his future wife to spend.
‘Take your horse, Mister Kimberley?’ A youthful smartly dressed hotel employee asked at Prince Eugene’s head as he reached for the reins.
‘You know me?’ Kimberley asked in surprise. He looked down at the youth’s sharply creased trousers, polished shoes and black striped shirt. This would be a youngster learning the hotel trade from the bottom with his round pork pie hat with a thin strap under his chin that barely held it securely on his well oiled hair. Every few seconds an uncertain hand flew to his head to verify that the unstable hat remained at a regulation angle and was still in place. If he felt uncomfortable in his porter’s garb he seemed happy enough to greet a prospective hotel client.
‘No, sir. I don’t rightly know you from the next travelling man, but a Mex dropped off some luggage and said a man on a white horse would drop by to collect it.’
‘A Mexican, you say?’ Kimberley grinned. ‘There can’t be too many of those here abouts.’
‘He said you’d be staying a few nights.’
Kimberley frowned at the suggestion. That thought had not crossed his mind, but he could do with a civilised bath to wash the dust of the last few days from hair and body and this seemed a place that would provide something better than a cold water horse trough in the backyard.
Looking around to see if anything more suitable and less expensive appealed, he noticed the Provincial Bank of Sweetwater just across the street.
‘Might do at that,’ he agreed swinging a leg over the sleeping roll and jacket tied to the rear of the saddle before stepping lightly onto the asphalt. He untied the jacket to take into the hotel. ‘Make sure he gets a good rub down with dry hay. Give him oats and make sure he can’t get at any other stallions, he’s a mite unsociable and you don’t want to be caught up in any of their hostilities. A kick in the pants could sure spoil your day.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, sir. I know my way around horses. My folks came from Texas. This here one of those Kentucky greys?’ the youth asked. ‘I heard, tell they’re quite smart, but lack stamina when it comes to range work, some of the wild mustangs can see them off before breakfast.’
Kimberley winked with a broad smile. ‘Don’t believe all you hear, son, and don’t repeat it too loud in front of this horse here. He ain’t a Kentucky grey, but he’s smart enough to understand what you say and hand out a quick kick in the pants for saying it.’
Kimberley saw no point in explaining Prince Eugene’s regal Austrian ancestry. It would take too long and the youth would probably be none the wiser. He probably didn’t even know where Austria was on the world map.
As the youth walked off with his horse, Kimberley looked up at the hotel for a few moments before mounting the two steps to the wooden sidewalk and entering its swing doors. Inside two uniformed staff moved quickly from oil lamp wall fixture to lamp fixture touching a flame from a long wax spill to each oil wick to dispel the gathering gloom. After ensuring that each flame burned brightly and without smoking they hurried to the next.
At reception desk Kimberley found his luggage piled on the floor by the counter. The only occupant looked up enquiringly as he leaned on the woodwork as though tired at the end of a long day. If he was, that was unfortunate. He still had many hours to go before the end of his duty shift.
‘I see my luggage arrived before me,’ Kimberley observed with a smile. ‘I’d like to join it in a front room overlooking the street. I’m a keen observer of human nature and it all passes before one’s eyes if one has the patience to watch. Two nights to start with.’
‘Very true, sir,’ the receptionist agreed cordially. ‘Some of God’s humanity is less agreeable than the rest I suppose, but we’re all His creatures as the Revered Anthony Wellborn might say in one of his better Sunday sermons.’ As he spoke he referred to an open register lying on the desk in front of him. ‘You’re in luck, we have rooms vacant in the front of the house. Most people want peace and quiet when they go to bed and they find the back of the hotel provides that, especially on pay weekends. Things get a mite noisy then, although Sheriff Cotton used to place a couple of deputies in the street outside to keep the noisiest groups away from the hotel.’ He made an entry in the daily occupancy sheet lying on the desk. ‘That’ll be three bucks a night, payable in advance. Meals is extra but can be added to your bill and settled when you leave.’
‘This is a mighty fine establishment to find way up in the Nevada mountains, how come?’ Kimberley asked as the register was marked with a cross and rotated so that he could sign for the room indicated.
‘That room looks over the main street and across the way is the bank. You can keep an eye on that if you got any money tucked away in Mayor Drummond’s vaults, although it ain’t been robbed so far.’
‘Walls too thick?’ Kimberley asked as he signed his acceptance.
‘That and the latest in iron safes, and plenty of armed guards around the place night and day helps. Any robbers who break in there and escape with their hands full of cash deserve to get away with it because they’d be some inventive cusses.’ The register was spun round and inspected before the key was handed over. ‘Room twenty-seven. It’s a double room, but we’re quiet at the moment and I’ll only charge you for single occupation.
Kimberley nodded, picked up his key but made no effort to move away from the reception desk.
‘I’ll have your luggage sent up to your room, Mr Kimberley.’ The receptionist waved a hovering porter in the direction of Kimberley’s luggage and told him their destination.
‘Who owns this place? It’s mighty grand for a town this size,’ Kimberley remarked
‘It’s growing,’ the receptionist protested indignantly. ‘Every year Sweetwater gets bigger. You wouldn’t credit the changes there’s been since I arrived. The Town Council has great plans.’ He paused and looked around to see if he should be doing something else besides talking to a dusty stranger. He obviously did not own the place. ‘Owners?’ he muttered thoughtfully. ‘Well, I don’t rightly know now, but the money to build the place in the first place came from leading citizens, leading ranchers, the Railway Company and from the owners of the Plenty Gold Mining Group. They all wanted better accommodation than could be found around the town and they dug deep. I think the original outlay has been repaid many times over although I don’t know who pockets the profits. We just cross the street and hand our takings over to Mayor Drummond; he says thanks and pays our wages. I guess his sticky fingers are in the till somewhere. He has them in most cash boxes around here.’
Kimberley nodded. ‘I guess a growing town needs a strong leader to keep pushing it in the right direction.’
The porter picked up his luggage and after paying for the room Kimberley followed him towards the wide carpeted staircase leading to the second floor.
The ground floor consisted of one large room straight off the sidewalk with many chairs and tables scattered around for residents and their guests to sit and relax. Through an open glass panelled door Kimberley could see an equally large and well-furnished dining room with a kitchen beyond. From the lounge other doors led to smaller rooms serving other purposes, like offices, writing and reading rooms. There seemed to be no bar in the accepted western sense, but drinks were obtainable from a well-stocked area in the dining room. Public drinking was plainly not encouraged in the Wabuska Hotel, although it was mid-week and the hotel seemed busy.
Kimberley followed the porter to the front of the house and room twenty-seven, a room situated immediately above the hotel entrance. If the floor was not too thick, and few western buildings were, then it could be noisy from that source let alone sounds coming up from the street. Even a closed window hardly dampened the persistent sounds of voices and the clatter of hooves and the rumble of passing wagons on the asphalt as they melted into the general background noises expected in a busy town.
Kimberley grimaced. He asked for a front room now he would have to suffer its discomforts for two nights while he looked for somewhere quieter and cheaper to live. Three dollars was a horrendous price to pay for a night’s sleep when the average cowpoke earned twenty dollars a month all found and a good hot meal could be bought for two bits or less.
He grudgingly decided that the room seemed comfortable enough.
‘This’ll do fine,’ he told the porter as he placed the luggage at the foot of the bed. ‘Any chance of a bath?’ That requirement being the reason he felt attracted to the place in the first place.
‘Yes, sir the chambermaid’ll attend to that. I’ll send her along.’ Kimberley dropped a quarter in his hand. It was a lot of money for the small service, but doubtless his wages consisted mostly of tips and meals composed of kitchen leftovers.
He had almost completed unpacking when a light tap on the door announced the arrival of a bright-eyed chambermaid who cheerfully enquired if he really wanted a bath at that time of the day.
‘Lady, I’m covered in so much dust you’ll need a shovel to empty the bath when I’m done,’ his voice trailed into silence as she dragged a large yellow and white Wabuska Hotel motifed hip bath into the room. She was small, not over five foot two and pretty as a painted picture. Not more than school age, he judged approvingly, long dark hair tied with a thick red ribbon into a ponytail that trailed down her back and swished from side to side with every head movement. Neat, self-confident she immediately filled the dour room with the sunshine of a radiant smile. Life, had plainly not disillusioned or treated her badly, but then it rarely treated those favoured with good looks, charm and effortless grace with anything less than golden sunshine and brilliant red roses. Her smile provided an impressive reason for every full-blooded male in the world to want to live.
‘We’ll soon whoosh that away,’ she promised cheerfully. ‘I’ll have Tony bring up the water while I fetch soap and towels.’ She disappeared leaving the room suddenly gloomier for her departure.
Kimberley blinked and looked down at his travelled stained appearance with a distaste not felt before. Subconsciously glancing in a mirror over the washstand he removed his stained Stetson and smoothed his thick hair into some semblance of order with hurried palm sweeps of his hands.
Turning to his cases, he selected some clean clothes and laid them on the bed for when he finished bathing. Refreshed by a bath and clean clothes he would look more presentable for the approval of the damsel of the bath. He wanted to know her better and preferably before morning. He looked at the empty hip bath and idly visualised her lying inside submerged up to her full bosom in soap suds and steam. The attractive thought absorbed his attention until a light tap announced her breezy return.
‘You travelled far?’ she enquired, placing towels on a nearby chair and positioned a new bar of soap in a portable tray that clipped to the edge of the bath. ‘You must have just rode in because there ain’t no trains due in until mid-morning. What’s your name besides Mr Kimberley.’ She spoke with a light rippling delivery that invited a pleasant response even though her questions were impertinent and would never be asked by a man.
Before he could answer the door was nudged open and another young uniformed man toiled in carrying two covered buckets filled with steaming hot water.
‘Tip them in, Tony,’ the chambermaid ordered briskly. ‘Then fetch two more and the same number of cold. Mr Kimberley wants a good long soak.’ She dismissed Tony with a wave of her hand and moved to the bed where the fresh clothes lay. ‘Say, is this what you wear when you’re not sat on a horse?’ she asked lifting a white silk shirt with ruffed seams, neckline and pockets and held its smoothness to her face. ‘This is gorgeous.’ She lost interest in his origins and mode of transportation, probably one of the stable lads had already told her about his white horse. She caressed her skin with the shirt for several minutes as though in a dream. ‘I’m going to get married in silk,’ she decided. She looked at the bed. ‘It must be great to be laid all night between silk sheets. That’s something I plan for my honeymoon.’