Bohanin's Last Days (3 page)

Chapter IV

Springfield, Colorado was situated on the open plains a hundred and fifty miles northeast of Fort Garland. Without the railroad, Springfield would not have existed. The only town of any size in the southeast corner of the state, it served established ranches and farmsteads for hundreds of square miles of dry open grasslands. Composed of rude frame buildings and a few scattered adobes it took on the look of frontier towns throughout the West. Bohanin had been on the trail for three days without even passing a homestead. His mare needed grain and water, and he needed a bath and a shave. As he stopped his rig in front of the local livery, a sturdy man in his forties stepped from the entrance to hold his horse.

“She'll need grain and a good grooming. You might grease the axles and check out the buggy. I've got a fair distance yet to go,” Bohanin said.

“Nice rig. New isn't it?” the attendant asked.

“Not nearly as new as a week ago,” Bohanin answered. “I need a bath and a shave, and a place to spend the night.”

“The tub and the shave can be had at Merle Anderson's just down the street. I'd advise that you stay at Netty Johnson's boarding house down by the schoolhouse yonder. She runs a good clean place and the food's damned good,” the attendant said.

“I need to know your rate. I'll pay in advance,” Bohanin said as he lifted his rifle and suitcase from the buggy.

“How long you staying?”

“A day or so. I reckon the mare could use the rest. I know I can.”

“Two bits ought to cover it. If you decide to leave early, I'll refund the difference.”

“Good enough, the name's Captain L.J. Bohanin.”

“Well, Captain L.J. Bohanin, my name is Groves and I run this place. I'll take good care of your mare.”

Bohanin nodded wearily and started down the street. It was easy to spot the barber pole in front of Merle Anderson's shop and he made straight for it.

Anderson, a thin man with a fancy waxed mustache, was standing at the window, watching the street. The barber opened the door for Bohanin when it became evident that he intended to give the merchant some trade. The shop was a one-chair affair with a nice new mirror and vanity across from a few leather-covered waiting chairs. The room smelled of hair tonic and shaving lotion. A row of personal shaving mugs was situated on either side of the vanity.

“I need a place to get a bath and a shave. The livery man told me this was the place,” Bohanin said as he handed his rifle and suitcase to the barber.

“Since I'm the only barber in town, I think he gave you solid advice. I can brush your suit for you while you clean up,” Anderson said.

“I'd appreciate that. She's getting a little trail weary,” Bohanin said.

“If you'll have a seat, I'll start some water heating for your bath. I can give you a shave during the meantime.”

Bohanin removed his hat and hung it on the coat tree by the door. He removed his coat and hung it next to his hat. He heard the barber talking from the back room as he prepared Bohanin's water.

“You been traveling quite a distance?”

Bohanin sat in a waiting chair and watched a pair of women pass by the window carrying dry goods from shopping. “Yes, I started from Fort Larned, Kansas. On my way to California.”

“Didn't take the train?” the barber asked as he entered the main room.

“No. I'm in no hurry and I wanted to do some sightseeing along the way.”

The barber offered Bohanin his barber chair.

“That's a fair piece to travel in a buggy,” he said as he draped a cloth about Bohanin's shoulders and adjusted the chair with one stroke of the pump.

“I'm in no particular hurry and I wanted to see the countryside on my trip out,” Bohanin said.

“You've no pressing business, then?”

“No, I'm retired.”

“I'll bet you were a military man.”

Bohanin smiled. “How'd you know that?”

“The way you carried yourself, mainly, I guess. You want a trim of the hair as well?”

“Yes, that would be fine,” Bohanin answered, quite comfortable with Anderson's manner.

“I was in the service myself. That's where I learned barbering. Served with the 2nd Colorado Cavalry,” Anderson said as he prepared Bohanin for his haircut and shave.

“Serve any time back East?” Bohanin asked.

“No, I pulled all of my duty out here. How about you?”

“I was with the Army of the Potomac for most of the war. I was transferred to Fort Riley just before Grant took charge.”

“Served the rest of your time in the West, then?” the barber asked.

“Yes, chasing Indians mostly,” Bohanin said as he enjoyed the hot towel Anderson was using to soften his beard.

The shave was refreshing and the bath was just the order. A fresh shirt from his suitcase and the freshly brushed suit made him feel much better.

“I suppose you'll be spending the night in town,” the barber said as he accepted the fifty cents from Bohanin. “You'll find Netty Johnson's boarding house the best place to stay.”

“Yes, I've heard it's the best,” Bohanin answered as he observed an odd expression cross the barber's face.

Bohanin turned to look out the window to see three cowboys dismounting at a hitch rail across the dusty street.

“I see some of Bochart's riders are in town. Odd for them to be here in the middle of the week,” Anderson said.

Bohanin joined the barber at the window. He watched the men as they made their way through the swinging doors of the saloon across the street. They were hard looking and heavily armed. A Mexican was sporting a large knife sheathed along the small of his back in his gun belt.

“Kind of a rough looking lot,” Bohanin said.

“They're a rough lot. Logan and Augustina Bochart own a big spread south of here. Those men ride for them. I've never understood why Logan Bochart keeps such men on the payroll. We don't have no rustler nor Indian trouble around here anymore.”

“Maybe they've been on the payroll awhile. The Bochart's may have some good hands that they want to keep around,” Bohanin said, hoping for more information.

“I have no doubt that they're not good hands. They're just a rough lot. Make a lot of trouble around here on paydays. Been more than once that Logan's had to straighten out some mess that one of those three has caused. That Mexican named Espironsa; he's a mean one. Seems to enjoy cutting folks up,” Anderson said as he handed Bohanin his rifle and suitcase.

“I hope you enjoy our town. I've enjoyed visiting with you Captain Bohanin,” Anderson said as Bohanin left.

“Same here. I'll recommend you if I ever get the chance,” Bohanin said.

Netty Johnson kept a clean, freshly painted two-story structure at the west end of Springfield. Several young cottonwoods, planted about the place promised a nice yard for the future. Johnson was a busty, handsome woman near Bohanin's age. She offered Bohanin a ground floor room and informed him that dinner was at seven. There would be several eating that night and he needed to be on time if he expected to get his share.

Bohanin smiled. Judging from the condition of the boarding house and the appearance of the woman, he supposed that there would be plenty of good food for everyone. After leaving his things in his room, Bohanin decided to treat himself to an afternoon whiskey. It would still be a couple of hours before dinner and he didn't plan on going out after the meal.

As he stepped through the front door onto the wide, open verandah, Bohanin noticed a tall, striking woman approaching from the direction of the schoolhouse. She had beautiful even features, dark hair neatly fitted under a simple bonnet, deep green eyes, an erect leggy stride. She smiled at Bohanin as he tipped his hat and held the door for her. She was in her early twenties, but she moved with an air of authority and maturity. Normally Bohanin wouldn't be that impressed with a woman he had met on the street, but she was unusually attractive. Bohanin had his evening whiskey to enjoy and he would find out more about the woman later. She probably stayed at the boarding house and he would see more of her at dinner.

As he approached the saloon, he noticed Merle Anderson closing his shop for the evening. He watched as Anderson crossed the street. Bohanin reached the front door at the same time as Anderson and offered to buy the barber a drink. Anderson said that he would accept but only if Bohanin would allow him to buy the cigars. Bohanin good-naturedly accepted.

A long bar with brass foot rails graced one side of the narrow frame building. A few card tables were positioned along the opposite wall. Toward the back of the room was a worn billiard table. The three Bochart cowboys were playing a quiet game. Behind the bar, was a mirror and bottle shelf with a mounted elk's head providing the center of attention. A painting of a reclining nude woman with flaxen hair graced the area below the mount.

The bartender offered a cigar selection to the barber.

“I'm fond of the weed but my wife can't abide them in the house. Since I don't particularly like smoking them alone in the yard, I usually treat myself to one before going home to supper,” Anderson said.

The barber picked two and handed Bohanin one. Bohanin in turn asked the bartender, a fellow named Spike, if he had any good medicinal sipping whiskey. Spike smiled and produced a dark bottle of oh-be-joyful from underneath the bar labeled “The General's Select” and sporting an image of Ulysses Grant.

Bohanin examined the bottle, “If it's good enough for U.S. Grant, I'm sure we can manage to choke it down.”

Spike laughed. “That's not saying much. From what I hear, the President isn't above drinking much of anything.”

“But this is the General's Select. Probably for special occasions, like breakfast, lunch and dinner,” Bohanin said.

The men laughed. Bohanin offered to buy a round for the house, figuring that the cowboys would happily accept his gesture of goodwill as well. Their reaction was odd and sullen.

Only the Mexican was positive, reaching for his own glass and showing that it was full. The other two men looked at each other and made snide comments concerning Bohanin's appearance. Bohanin didn't like the manner of the men or the comments but he chose to ignore both.

As Bohanin and Anderson enjoyed the sips of whiskey and the cigars, one of the cowboys placed his cue stick against the wall and walked toward the bar.

“What's the matter, old timer? Figure we can't afford a drink of our own?” the cowboy asked.

Bohanin turned toward the man. He was of average build with shoulder length hair. Two Colt revolvers were suspended from his hips in well-worn holsters. He had a large broad brimmed hat and a fancy watch chain was suspended from one of the buttons of his dark green bib-front shirt. The cowboy wore chaps and had a pair of leather cuffs on his forearms to protect his wrists from rope burn. Large working spurs jangled from the heels of his boots. The man was smiling but wore an oddly evil expression.

“I made the offer purely in the spirit of goodwill, sir. I certainly didn't mean to offend,” Bohanin said.

“Well, I was offended. Next time keep your offers to yourself.” The cowboy waited a few seconds for Bohanin's reaction. When there was no immediate reply, he turned and started back to his companions.

Bohanin waited for the cowboy to take a few steps. “If you think that I'm going to consider offending some ass before I offer to buy drinks for the house in the future, you're an even bigger ass than you appear at the moment.”

“Careful, Captain,” Anderson said. “He's just looking for a fight.”

The cowboy turned. “You better be careful how you talk, Grandpa. I'll whittle me down some grease for my coffee fire.”

The man outweighed Bohanin by forty pounds and he was at least fifteen years younger.

“This really isn't something to go to your grave over, gent. But if you insist, I'll gladly comply.”

Bohanin opened his coat with his left hand to expose the butt of his revolver. Anderson and Spike stepped away from Bohanin to allow room for flying bullets .

The other white cowboy spoke softly from the billiard table. “Starbuck, maybe we ought to just forget it. What do you think, Sergio?”

The Mexican was quietly sullen. “I think this gringo is afraid to die. I think he makes the big talk to impress his new friends. I think Starbuck can take him.”

“He probably can. He can probably shoot a hole clean through me before I can clear leather,” Bohanin said. “But he'll die for his trouble and so will you if you take a hand, Mexican.”

There was a long period of silence as Starbuck and Espironsa considered Bohanin's statement.

Finally, the third cowboy spoke. “We weren't sent here for this. You fellows know that. This isn't the time or the place. Let it go.”

Slowly, Starbuck smiled.

Bohanin thought it odd. He didn't expect the cowboy to back down after making such a strong showing.

“You're lucky, old man. Real lucky that I got more important matters to attend to tonight. Another day, maybe?” Starbuck said softly.

“Your choice. Just as it was your choice whether or not to accept a drink,” Bohanin answered.

Starbuck turned to face his companions. “Let's get the hell out of here. We've got shit to do.”

The cowboys made their way past Bohanin and out the door.

Anderson and Spike looked at each other and sighed. Spike shook his head.

“I cannot believe it,” Anderson said. “I've never seen Starbuck take that off of anybody. Damn, Captain Bohanin, I figured you were on your way to the undertaker. Courtesy of Jake Starbuck.”

Bohanin turned to the bar and topped off his glass of whiskey. “I'm not a trouble maker but I can't abide such behavior.”

Spike let out an astonished laugh. “I reckon not, Captain. That was the damnedest thing I ever saw. Bluffed three of Bochart's toughs right out of the room. I'd have never believed it.”