Number One

“Untitled Story Excerpt”

CHAPTER X-1

The tall man stepped down from the Wells Fargo coach at the bottom of Main Street. He stretched his lanky frame, one arm at a time, trying to work the kinks out of his muscles after the long ride here. He swatted his clothes with his old sweaty Stetson, beating the dust out of his worn clothes. He tried to work up a spit to rid his mouth of the same gritty dust from his mouth. "Whiskey", he thought.  Not before he took care of his ‘possibles’ though.  Looking up at the driver, who was rummaging in the freight on top of the coach, he asked, “Can you throw that McClellen saddle down here to me?  And if it ain’t too much trouble, the black portmanteau.”  The driver didn’t say anything, just picked up the worn saddle and black leather case and dropped them right at his feet.  “Thankee kindly sir.” and the tall man gave a half-assed salute and a nod.

The tall man slung the Sharp’s rifle that didn’t often leave his hand and very seldom his eyesight onto his shoulder and then bent down and picked his gear up off of the ground.  He looked over at the Express Office on the other side of the stagecoach with the idea of storing his saddle there until he found a room or somewhere to lay down to sleep out of the weather, at least.  He walked into the  Wells Fargo Office and asked the first green shaded clerk he saw if that was possible.  The clerk looked at him in exasperation and with pursed lips said, “That will be a nickel per week,  there, grab a tag and some string to tie it on with and write your name on it…if you can.”  He held out his hand for payment.  Nate decided that he would leave the portmanteau also, as it only held his spare clothes, such as they were.  So he gave the pissy clerk a ten cent piece and took two tags.

The tall man was, Nathan Nephi Thomas, “Nate” to his friends. He had been told to meet his contact at the “Bucket of Blood” saloon, and he spotted the sign a ways up the dusty street.  Heading in that direction, he walked briskly, hoping to shake out the stiffness from the coach.  His thirst was getting the best of him and he considered stopping in one of the many watering holes that he passed.  Until he walked by one named “The Sergeant Major’s Silver Dollar Saloon”.

         A shudder ran down his spine as he stared at the sign.  His mind raced back to six months ago and the brawl that almost cost him his life.  The task that Brigham Young had given him 3 years before had once led him into the clutches of Colonel John P. Morgan and his corrupt Sergeant Major, Aloyisius McGillicuddy. The Sergeant Major had beaten him senseless and had left him for dead. He wouldn’t be drinking in that place.

         “Damn him! Please God let me see him with my rifle in hand!” he muttered at the memory and walked on. He looked around at the men walking around the town. Miners most of them, a few teamsters and drovers mixed in and here and there a woman strolled the boardwalks. Nate stopped at the doorway of the Bucket of Blood, the sun was low in the sky, shining directly on the batwing doors of the saloon. He never walked into any barroom silhouetted by the sun. He would be a perfect target for anyone who might be waiting for him. “C’mon, Nate, no one knows you’re here!” he told himself and walked in. He took the precaution of stepping left as he walked through the door. He paused, looked around and sized up the crowd. The bar itself was to the right and ran the length of the wall.

         On the opposite wall, and in the back of the room, a little bald man pounded a huge piano. The tinny tune was unsuccessfully trying to stir a chorus line of ‘soiled doves’. Their pitiful efforts spurred the raucous crowd of drinkers to cheer and jeer at the sad women.  Nate walked by them, shook his head and said under his breath. “Damned shame, it ain’t right, treatin’ the sisters like that.” He wondered at the nature of men who would make fun of these women now but then fall into their arms later when they would go upstairs for the night.

         Turning to the bar, he put his hands on the polished wood. He hooked one heel of his cavalry boots on the brass rail. The barkeep turned and… His eyes widened in surprise. “Brother Nathan, we weren’t expectin’ ya for another month.” he said in a low voice. “What happened?”  Nate grimaced. He wasn’t ready to talk about the ‘mission’ that the Prophet had laid on him. Especially when, he was about to ask for whiskey.  “I don’t know who you think I am friend, but my brothers are a far piece from here. ”

         He stuck out his hand in a gesture of friendship and the man did as well.  When their hands met, Nate took a deep grip and pressed the man’s hand in the way that he had been taught.  A first step in figuring out if the man was a friend or…well, maybe just an old acquaintance, long forgotten. The barkeep looked at him with a more serious gaze and gripped back. “I must have figured wrong stranger; what’ll you have?” the barkeep took his hand back.  “Whiskey, friend, and leave the bottle.”

         Nate reached into his left vest pocket with two fingers searching for a silver dollar.  “Water by?” the barkeep asked.  Nate shook his head for no and laid the coin on the wood with a quiet ring that let the barman know that it was real silver.  The other man nodded and turned to get Nate’s order.  Nate watched as he moved away and nonchalantly looked at the customers that were nearest to him. He wanted to make sure that no one was paying any undue attention to him or the conversation. Satisfied, he waited for the whiskey. 

         Out of habit he stared intently into the mirror that was facing him and the room from behind the bar. Carefully, he studied every man and memorized their face and manner of carrying themselves.  He might only see a shape or way of moving if any of them came at him out of the dark. It might make the difference in a fight.

The face of the barkeep moved into his view and he redirected his attention to the solid thump of the whiskey bottle on the top of the bar and the higher note of the glass next to it. His mouth juices started to flow and as they did a flash of guilt raced through his brain.  The Prophet had released him from his obligation to keep the Word those long three years ago when he had been sent to do this damned chore.