We’d been driving cattle toward Kansas for over a month and had stopped for the night. After the usual evening pleasantries we were bedding down when Frank Kendall bent over to move his saddle. Frank’s rump was practically sticking right in Pinto Ward’s face when he broke wind. Damned if Pinto didn’t fall over backward trying to get out of the way. He was so mad Pinto would have shot Frank right on the spot were it not for the rest of us laughing ourselves half to death.
That, of course, started the boys off on a night-long debate on the virtues of different animal leavings. As expected, most of the cowboys were convinced that cow patties smelled the sweetest, whereas those of us who worked as wranglers sang the virtues of the noble steed’s road apples. The buffalo chip was discussed, but for argument’s sake, and since there wasn’t an Indian among us at the time, the buffalo was left in the same group as cattle.
There were a couple of boys from Tennessee who actually claimed they preferred the smell of pig droppings to all others, and it took half the night for them to convince us they were really serious.
We finally stopped arguing when Chester Martin shouted: “Sheep! Sheep stinks the worst, and ain’t no one convincin’ me otherwise!”
The fact we had spent the better part of three hours trying to decide which manure smelled the best, not the worst, seemed to have eluded him. But then again, it seemed an honorable way for us all to agree on something, even those who had never even seen a sheep. Besides, nobody on that drive wanted to be the one to disagree with Chester Martin. It was hard enough getting along with Ches when he was in a good mood, without risking getting him into a bad one, so we all unanimously agreed—sheep stinks the worst!
I remember that bunch as always arguing about something stupid, but we did have good times together. Now, with all there was to worry about, I found myself daydreaming about something that silly. Funny how the mind works sometimes.
As I rode into the southeast edge of town, the livery was the first building that appeared. It was about as dirty as everything else there. Piled all around the stable were several twelve-foot-high stacks full of old urine-soaked hay and horse droppings, not to mention several thousand stable flies.
There was a circular corral out in front made of split logs nailed to a dozen or so vertical poles, but there wasn’t a single straight post in the whole ring. Out in back was a long rectangular lean-to shack with about thirty standing stalls and a half dozen box stalls.
I rode up to a trough made from an old barrel that had been cut lengthwise and turned on its side, and watered the horse. An old bearded groom was brushing out a chestnut gelding hitched to one of the corral posts. I noticed the man wore an old black stovepipe hat that had a rather sizable chunk torn out of it.
I dismounted, loosened the cinch, and pulled the saddle.
The old man caught me glancing at his hat, spit, and grinned back at me. “A swaybacked hammer-headed old jack took a bite out of it about a year back.”
I nodded, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to buy another hat. But then again, he didn’t bother to swat away the flies that were constantly landing on him, either.
“You the owner here?”
“Am now. Previous one got shot after selling a blind grulla to the wrong feller. Ah told him he ought to give the money back.” He shook his head. “Guess he learned the hard way…the customer’s always right.’ Specially when he’s holdin’ a double-barreled sawed-off. The name’s Lijah. Just toss your tack on that pole over there. You need anything special?”
“Well, I’d like him brushed down, and when you feed him, mix some corn in with the hay.”
“Cost you extra.”
“Figured as much,” I said, tossing him a coin. “I may be leaving soon, so how about making sure he’s saddled back up again after he’s cooled off and fed.”
Elijah spat a stream of tobacco juice from his chaw and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Looks like he’s been rode hard.” He dried his hand on the front of his shirt. Judging by his shirt it must have been a regular habit.
“Maybe so, but it don’t mean I want him put up wet.” My reply was meant to insure things got done right. “By the way, is there a saloon around here called The Golden Goose?” I asked.
“Sure is, if you feel like blowing all your loot.” He used his hat to point with. “Go on down about four buildings and turn left. You cain’t miss it.” I must have looked worse than I thought because he added: “Some folks clean up and shave at the Chinaman’s place. Up the street over there, second building.” Obviously he wasn’t one of them.
Right then a wash would have felt swell, but with Chavez and his men hot on my trail I couldn’t spare the time. At least for now I’d have to stay just as I was.
Elijah began untying the chestnut. When I started to leave, he turned the horse back toward the stable. The EH brand on the gelding’s rump caught my eye as he swung around.
“Say, how about that,” I said. “I have a friend that rides a gelding just like that one. Swear they could be twins. Even has the same three socks.”
“That so,” Elijah said. “Small world, ain’t it?”
“Well it probably isn’t my friend’s. Short fat friendly chap with wide sideburns?”
“Nah,’ way off.” He shrugged. “This one’s a tall thin sort with a full beard. Carries a big bone-handled knife in a chest rig. You know…the kind they call an Arkansas toothpick. Rode in with two others. Kind of a hardcase iffen you ask me.” Apparently rethinking what he’d just said to me, a total stranger, he quickly added: “But then again ain’t none o’ my business.” He quickly disappeared with the gelding back into the barn.
It wasn’t far to the saloon, but the street was so miserably dusty I reconsidered stopping for that bath. I ended up deciding against it, though. For me to earn the confidence of rustlers and bushwhackers I’d have to give the impression of someone on the run. Well, at least that much was true, I thought to myself grimly.
I paused at the front of the saloon and peered through the double doors before entering. The Golden Goose was anything but golden, the same being true of the rest of Gila City.
At one point the town had boomed, the mines attracting fortune-seekers from all over. But that was years ago. The glory days had long passed, and those that hadn’t already left town were probably now too far down on their luck to get out. Either that or they stayed on in order to prey on the misfortunes of others, like vultures cleaning a carcass.
Whoever owned this saloon was obviously more interested in stripping the remainder of his customers of their money than in building new business. That was made clear enough from listening to the number of complaints and curses coming from the gaming tables I passed on the way to the bar.
The place was in total disarray, and the stench of stale beer was thick enough to cut with a Bowie. In its day the saloon may have been high tone, but no longer. The carpeting was faded and torn, the mirror over the bar cracked, and most of the stairs leading up to the second floor were warped. The piano player at the far corner was doing a fair job of “Steamboat to Natchez”, especially considering his piano had two keys missing.
At the other end of the bar, alongside the wall, was a large barrel of water with a gourd ladle, and next to it a side of beef on a spit. A loaf of hard-baked bread and a knife lay on a small table right under a sign that read: Sandwiches. Eat at your own risk! I drank some water from the barrel, rather than ordering a hard drink from the bar. For what I had in mind I would need what little money I kept stashed in the neck bag I always carried under my shirt.
I was so hungry I cared more about quantity than quality, and cut myself a large, hopefully clean hunk of beef from the spit, and slapped it on the bread. They were right about the risk, both the bread and the beef turned out to be about as tough as the room I was surveying.