Number Four

Chapter 4-XXXX

         In his room with the door closed, he breathed a sigh of relief.  He had been through three years of Hell and then in the last 6 months the bad luck had doubled up on him.  The Colonel had discovered him with hands up to his elbows inside the wall safe behind his desk.  Holding him at gunpoint, he had called that Devil, Sergeant Major McGillicuddy into the room.  The Sergeant Major had systematically beaten him silly, trying to determine Nate’s motives.  Finally, he had slipped into unconsciousness, blessed blackness, which must have seemed like death to the two other men.  They had carried him out to a waiting carriage and driven him to the lower part of D.C. next to the Potomac.  They had thumped him a couple times more and then dumped him in the brush.  “If the bastards hadn’t been so damned lazy they would have took me all the way to the river and drowned me.”  Nate recalled.  Instead, several hours later, near dawn, a light drizzle had brought him around enough that he crawled up to the roadway where a passing Samaritan had noticed him and his wrecked uniform and hauled him to the nearest military surgeon.  The Doc’s in the hospital had treated him as best they could and then left him in the hands of the Lord.  A sweet angel, Laura Anne, had then nursed him for a week until he could recall his name and unit, and in remembering, he recalled the circumstances that had brought him to this condition.  He had decided that he must remain nameless until he could get himself out of town; so he had not uttered his name to Laura, instead, he gave the name of someone that would come to his rescue.  Brother Amasa Taylor was his superior in his true ‘mission’.  He had been summoned by the hospital.  Recognizing the situation, he had taken Nate into his custody, and then to his farm in Maryland. 

         While Nate had recovered the rest of his wits, he had reported everything that he had found over the preceding 3 years.  And as he described the last effort to get verification of his facts, he swore that he would kill the Sergeant Major and that black-hearted Colonel if he ever crossed their path again.  Brother Taylor had decided that it would be best if he remained ‘dead’.  He delivered an unrecognizable body to the Army with a cock and bull story that matched the basic facts, and he was officially declared dead at the hands of thieves.  Since Nate had not given the names of next of kin, declaring himself an orphan, when he had joined the Army, no notice went out to tear at the hearts of his loved ones.  Brother Taylor had sent a telegraph to Salt Lake City saying that ‘all is well’. 

         He had outfitted Nate with a couple of sets of clothes in the style of a low rank soldier, mustered out and sent home.  He also provided a Sharps carbine made to use the newfangled brass cartridges, a McClellin saddle, a black leather portmanteau, $20 silver dollars and a belt, meant to be worn under his shirt, to carry them in, and finally a railway ticket to ‘End of Tracks’ Wyoming.  He would meet someone else there who would arrange a fast horse and companion the rest of the way to Utah, where he would meet with the Prophet for a more detailed report.

         Brigham Young had listened to his report, then sent him to the Comstock in Nevada with the words, “The answers we seek are there. ‘And a Lamb shall lead them…yessiree, a Lamb, I say’.  What say you Brother Nathan?”  “What could I say?” thought Nate. “I say that I serve the Lord and I serve you, President Young.  I go where I am called to go.” he said out loud.  The Prophet smiled at Nate’s words.  “You sound resolute, brother.  Just remember, ‘…a man’s enemies are the men of his own house.’ Someone will meet you there with further instructions.  Go to the Bucket of Blood saloon, your contact will seek you out. Watch for wolves in sheep’s clothing my boy. Be on your way brother, and May God Bless You.”

         So, here he was, in an all white boarding house run by a snappish woman, her sassy mother and a quiet, young Mexican woman.  Sighing again, he looked around the room.  Deciding that he needed more than a hand washing at the pump, he sat the portmanteau on the bed and lifted the pitcher from the basin and headed out of the back door in search of the water pump.  Nate pumped for what seemed like an eternity before the water flowed out of the spout and into the pitcher.  “This place likely could use a man’s hand about.  I bet the leather’s all wore out in this pump” he said to no one in particular. “I’ll ask her if she wants it done. If I’m here long enough that is.” He walked back to his room with the water.  Closing the door behind him he poured a generous splash of water in the basin and set the pitcher down.  Slowly, he began to undress. He reached behind his waist and removed the heavy Bowie knife and put it on the bureau by the basin. His smelly, sweat stained, dusty, coat and vest he dropped on the floor, followed by his stiff, filthy shirt. He unbuckled the leather money belt and set it beside the knife.  Dreading taking off his boots, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the heavy cavalry boots from his feet one at a time.  “Whew, it’s been a day or two since I had those off!” he continued by taking the ruined stockings off and dropping them on the floor.  Wriggling his toes in their newfound freedom, he stood and unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers and stepped away from them.  Nate was undecided about his union suit, but finally decided that the underwear had to go too.  So off they went.

         He unbuckled the straps on his portmanteau and pulled his spare clothes out and unrolled them on the bed. The shaving gear and small bottle of Bay Rum aftershave were next onto the bureau.  He felt a bit wicked walking around in the altogether in ‘Mrs. Young’s’ house but judging by the stench of his clothing and the grime on his body, he guessed it was a necessary evil.  He carried a cloth for washing and a larger scrap to dry off. His soap (a small hard bar of store-bought lye soap) was wrapped in the wash cloth, he put it in the water to soften a little, then set to it.

         Washed, dried, he stropped his razor on a boot top, swirled his stiff bristle brush on the soap and lathered his face(if you could call it lather). Nate stood in front the mirror above the bureau and scraped a week’s worth of whiskers off.  As he was making the last passes on his neck, a sharp knock on the door startled him enough that he nicked his skin.   An oath flew from his lips before he could restrain it. A gasp from the other side of the door was followed by, “Ephraim! There will be no coarse language in this house while you are here! Do you hear me?” Josephine’s sharp voice called out. Suddenly shy, he covered his groin with the free hand, worried that she would barge in. Nate answered quickly hoping to keep her out while he groped for his clean trousers,  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry it just slipped out.  What do you want?” he said as he slipped into his pants.  There was a short pause, then, “Would you like some hot water to wash with?” she replied.  Snorting at the timing, Nate answered her, “Too late, ma’am, I got some water from the well and I am nearly finished, thanks for the offer, though”. Josephine asked, “ Would you like someone to call you for supper?” Nate said that he would and she left him alone.  He finished with the razor and wiped the stray soap and blood from his face.  Cleaning his shaving gear in the nearly black water, he wondered if he could toss the used wash water out of the window without getting into trouble. Deciding that he would take a chance at it rather than walking it outside, he stuck his head from the open window and looked both ways carefully noting the distance to the ground. Seeing the coast was clear he tossed the water out over the ground.  Rinsing the basin with clear water he threw it out too.

           After he was fully dressed in the clean clothing, he sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the pile of stinking dirty clothes.  He decided that he wouldn’t worry about that right now and reached for the rifle that he had leaned against the wall near the headboard of the bed.  He opened the action and extracted the thumb-sized cartridge from the breech and put it aside. “Plenty of time before grub.” he murmured.  He dug in the leather case for a coiled string that had a bit of iron tied to one end and an oily scrap of cloth on the other.  Dropping the iron down the barrel of the rifle, he pulled the patch through the barrel. He led the rifle up to the light and peered through it looking for any fouling or rust. Seeing the shiny spiral grooves lit by the window, he was satisfied with the condition of the barrel but the outside was still caked with the dust of the trip and so he took a corner of his drying towel and tore it off and wiped the grit from the outside of his rifle and the cartridge. He reloaded and leaned the weapon back by the bed.

         Fetching the money belt from the bureau, he smoothed it across his lap as he sat back down and opened it. Carefully, he withdrew the remaining coins and counted them.  He put two of them in the small pouch sewn inside the waist of his trousers, the rest he set aside. He pulled out a folded paper that one of the ‘brothers’ had slipped to him as he was getting on the stage in Salt Lake.  He unfolded it and re-read it, “Your Col. is in Carson City. He ain’t the only wolf howling thereabouts.”  It was signed with a symbol for the astrological sign of Capricorn, the traditional sign of the Tribe of Dan.   

         “That demon never went anywhere without his shadow, the Sergeant Major.” Nate’s mood was spoiled at the memory of their last meeting. He had the advantage, at least; they thought he was dead. They were alive and still up to their nastiness.  Well, he hoped to remedy that, the nastiness and especially the living.  Savagely he wadded the paper and thrust it and the remaining coins back in the belt.  He was fastening it closed as he heard his name being called to the kitchen.  Standing, he lifted the mattress and laid it on top of the boards and put the mattress down and smoothed the bedclothes to hide his activity. Girding his loins, well his boots anyway, thrusting the Bowie into the top of his boot, knowing that she would crow if he scratched her chair with the hilt hanging out of his belt. He went to eat.