Kill Crazy (3 page)

Chapter Four

There were two saloons in Chugwater. One was the Wild Hog. It made no pretensions and existed for the sole purpose of providing inexpensive drinks to a clientele who didn't care if the wide plank floor was unpainted and stained with spilled liquor and expectorated tobacco juice. The Wild Hog did offer a limited food menu, but the biggest thing that set it apart from Fiddler's Green, the other saloon in town, was its women. While the girls who worked the bar at Fiddler's Green provided pleasant conversation and flirtatious company only, the women who worked at the Wild Hog were soiled doves who, for a price, would extend their hospitality to the brothel that was maintained on the second floor of the saloon. Nippy Jones, who owned the Wild Hog, made it very clear to the girls he hired that they would be expected to offer that service.

Because the evening rush had not yet started, Nippy was working the bar himself when Simon Reid came in.

“What are you doin' here, Reid?” Jones asked. “I thought all you Sky Meadow boys was connected to the Fiddler's Green by the hip.”

“They might be,” Reid said. “But not me, seein' as I don't ride for Sky Meadow.”

“What do you mean you don't ride for Sky Meadow? You been with Duff MacCallister for near 'bout a year.”

“I ain't with him no more,” Reid said without any further explanation. “Let me have a beer.”

 

 

Everyone agreed that the other saloon in town, Fiddler's Green, was an establishment that was equal to anything you could find between St. Louis and San Francisco. Fiddler's Green was owned by Biff Johnson, a retired army sergeant who, while he was with the Seventh Cavalry, had served with Custer, Reno, and Benteen.

Fiddler's Green was practically a museum to the Seventh Cavalry in general, and to Custer's last battle in particular. The walls were decorated with regimental flags and troop pennants, with arrows, lances, pistols and carbines picked up from more than a dozen engagements. He had one of Custer's hats. Libbie Custer had personally given it to him when he'd escorted her back to Monroe, Michigan, after George A. Custer was killed.

Even the name “Fiddler's Green” was indicative of Biff's service in the cavalry. Cavalry legend has it that anyone who had ever served as a cavalryman would, after they died, stop by a shady glen where there was good grass and a nearby stream of cool water for the horses. There, cavalrymen from all wars and generations would drink beer, chew tobacco, smoke their pipes, and visit. They would regale one another with tales of derring-do until that last syllable of recorded time, at which moment they will bid each other a last good-bye before departing for their final and eternal destination.

Emile Taylor was one of the customers in Fiddler's Green this afternoon. He was sitting at a table with Cindy Boyce, one of the bar girls, and Francis Schumacher, a local citizen. Cindy was a very pretty young woman, with red hair, blue eyes, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and a slender body with womanly curves. Schumacher was rawhide thin, with a handlebar moustache and hair that hung to his shoulders. Until recently, he had been a deputy. A month earlier Marshal Ferrell had fired him for beating up a drunk that he had brought into jail. Now, Schumacher was working at the livery stable, a position he considered a come-down.

At the moment, Emile was giving Schumacher tips on how to make a fast draw.

“What you have to do is always keep your holster and your pistol well oiled,” Emile said. “That way when you go to draw your gun, it won't get hung up on you.”

“How many men have you killed?” Schumacher asked.

Emile chuckled. “That's not somethin' you ever actually want to ask someone,” Emile said. “Let's just say that I've seen the elephant a few times.”

“Can't you two find something better to talk about than guns and killing?” Cindy asked.

“Ha!” Emile said. “I suppose the only thing you want us to talk about is how pretty you are.”

Cindy smiled. “That wouldn't be a bad subject,” she agreed.

 

 

When the five Sky Meadow cowboys came into town, the first place they visited was Fiddler's Green. As soon as they pushed in through the swinging batwing doors, they were greeted by two of the bar girls, one blond and one brunette.

“Hello, boys,” the brunette said.

“Hello, Nell, hello, Mattie,” Woodward said.

“Hey, Mattie, is that the new girl over there?” Ben asked, pointing to the redhead who, instead of wandering around the bar pushing drinks, was sitting at a table with two men.

“Yes, that's Cindy,” Mattie said. “She just started working here last week.”

“Folks have been talking about her, and they are right. She's a pretty thing,” Martin said. Then, realizing that he may have committed a faux pas, he added, “'Course, she ain't no prettier than you two are, though.”

Both Nell and Mattie laughed. “Don't worry about it, honey,” Nell said. “I know she's younger and prettier than I am. But I ask you this. Who is it that came over here to talk to you?”

“You did,” Ben said, smiling at her, grateful for the way she handled it.

“Who's the man she's sitting with? I know Francis Schumacher—he's been around a long time. I mean the other one.”

“His name is Emile, but I haven't heard anyone say his last name,” Mattie said.

“She sure seems to be friendly with them,” Walker said.

“Would you like me to ask her to come visit with you boys for a while?” Nell asked. “I'm sure she would be happy to.”

“Why would we want to talk to her when we have you two girls?” Woodward said.

Smiling, Mattie removed Woodward's hat and ran her hand through his hair.

“Now isn't that a smart thing to say?” she asked. “Oh, there are some new customers. We have to go talk to them for a while, but don't you boys leave. We'll be back,” Mattie promised.

The five cowboys, who had stopped by the bar to get their beer when they came in, watched Nell and Mattie walk over to greet the new men. Then they found a table that would accommodate all five of them, and started rehashing the day's events.

“I guess you heard about the wolves,” Woodward said.

“Yeah,” Ben replied. “We spent the whole day workin' on wagons, tightening spokes in the wheels, greasing hubs. We even painted a couple, but we did hear about the wolves. Someone said that Mr. MacCallister shot five or six of 'em.”

“Eight of them,” Martin corrected. “I don't know how he done it. We couldn't none of us get close enough to the damn things to hardly even get a good look at 'em. But Mr. MacCallister went out there, and I swear, no more 'n an hour later he come back in, leavin' eight of them critters lyin' dead in the dirt.”

“Folks say he is as good a shot as there is in Laramie County,” Woodward said.

“Laramie County? Huh! I'll bet there ain't no better shot in all of Wyoming,” Walker said. “Al, I'm sure you mind the time he shot an apple off Miss Parker's head from a hundred feet away. And it wan't no ordinary apple, neither. It wan't no bigger 'n a plum.”

“We had a little excitement of our own today,” Dale said.

“What was that?” Woodward asked.

“I reckon you fellas heard what happened to Simon Reid, didn't you?” Dale asked.

“No, what?” Martin replied.

“I heard,” Walker said. “Reid quit, didn't he?”

“Quit, my ass,” Dale said. “He got hisself fired is what happened.”

“What did he do to get hisself fired?” Woodward asked.

“He got to mouthin' off to Elmer, and Elmer up and fired him. That's what he done,” Ben said, stepping in so that Dale didn't get to tell the entire story.

“Elmer ain't the kind of person you want to get mad at you,” Woodward said. “I reckon Reid is lucky that fired is all that got done to him.”

“Elmer's sort of strange duck,” Ben said.

“What do you mean, he's a strange duck?”

“Most of the time he's kind of quiet. But when you are around him, you always get the idea that he's sort of like a stick of dynamite, just waitin' to explode.”

Chapter Five

Elmer Gleason, the subject of their conversation, had a most interesting background. In a way, one could say that Duff had inherited Elmer with the ranch, because when Duff had come to develop the land he had filed upon, Elmer had already been there.

“They say the place is hainted,” R.W. Guthrie had told Duff when he'd first arrived in the territory. He had been talking about Little Horse Mine, a worked-out and abandoned gold mine that was on the land Duff had just taken title to.

“'Course, I ain't sayin' that I believe in haints, you understand. But that is what they say. Some say it wasn't the Spanish, that it was injuns that first found the gold, but they was all kilt off by white men who wanted the gold for themselves. But what happened is, after the injuns was all kilt, they become ghosts, and now they haint the mine and they kill any white man who comes around tryin' to find the gold. Now, mind, I don't believe none of that. I'm just tellin' you what folks says about it.”

As it turned out, the “haint” Guthrie had spoken of had been Elmer Gleason. Elmer had located a new vein of gold in the mine and, unable to capitalize on it, had been living a hand-to-mouth existence in the mine, unshaved and dressed only in skins.

Then Duff had discovered Elmer in the mine, and because the mine was on the property Duff had just filed upon, everything Elmer had taken from it so far had actually belonged to Duff. Duff had had every right to drive Elmer off, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd offered Elmer a one-half partnership in the mine.

That partnership had paid off handsomely for both of them. Now, Elmer was Duff's foreman and closest friend. And Duff's half of the proceeds from the mine had built Sky Meadow into one of the most productive ranches in Wyoming.

Before going into the mine, Elmer had lived for two years with the Indians. He'd married an Indian woman who had died while giving birth to their son. He didn't know where his son was now, and he didn't care, even though he knew that he probably should. He had left him with his wife's sister, and had not seen him since the day he was born, nor did he have any plans to.

As a part of Quantrill's irregulars during the Civil War, Elmer had taken part in the raid at Lawrence, Kansas.

From the
Leavenworth Daily Conservative
of August 23, 1863:

After the war, Elmer had ridden for a while with Frank and Jesse James. Separating from the James gang shortly after the disastrous Northfield, Minnesota raid, Elmer had cut a swath of lawlessness through the West. Then, leaving the outlaw trail behind him, he'd become a sailor, and later an armed mercenary fighting in Afghanistan during the British-Afghan war.

Elmer had never told Duff about his time in Afghanistan because, as a mercenary, he had been fighting for the Afghans against the British. He knew that Duff had not been there, and he was glad that he hadn't been. But this was a part of Elmer's history that he had no intention of sharing with his friend.

It was easy now to recall that day, for that was the day he had decided to quit being a mercenary. Fighting on the side of people whose language he couldn't understand, against people who spoke his same language, hadn't seemed right to him. At least during the Civil War everyone had spoken the same language.

Elmer had left Afghanistan with over two thousand dollars in cash. He'd returned to New York, where he'd spent every cent he had in less than two months.

At that moment, Duff came out onto the porch, interrupting Elmer's reverie. Although Duff wasn't particularly dressed up, he had cleaned up, shaved, and dabbed his face with a bit of bay rum.

“Looks to me like you're plannin' on doin' a little courtin',” Elmer said.

“Elmer, you know why an Englishman wears a monocle?”

“Hell, Duff, I don't even know what a monocle is.”

“It's an eyepiece that you wear in one eye.”

“Oh, yeah, I've seen them things,” Elmer said. “The feller that's wearin' 'em has to kinda squint down on 'em to hold 'em in place.”