Silver City Massacre (4 page)

“We'll fix some breakfast and head on outta here,” Joel said. “I wanna take a better look at those Indian ponies we picked up next time we stop.”

The captured horses seemed to have settled in with the others, and no longer resisted being led. They rode for half a day before stopping again to rest and water the horses. After some bacon and coffee, Joel and Riley looked their newly acquired stock over carefully and came to the conclusion that they had gained two pretty good horses, neither one more than about four years old. Joel especially liked the gray.

“When we get a little more of the dust of this prairie behind us, I think I'd like to see if I can throw a saddle on that one.”

For the present, however, the two Indian ponies were led behind the packhorses as they set out for Colorado Territory.

Almost two weeks had passed since they left the Canadian River when they made camp outside Denver City. The journey would have taken less time, but they had the good fortune to come upon a herd of deer near the Arkansas River, and were able to catch them at a shallow crossing. Both men managed to get off two clear shots, resulting in four carcasses to skin and butcher. By this time, they had concluded that there were no Comanche following them, so they took a few days to smoke-dry the meat and rig packs for it on the backs of the Indian ponies. The fresh venison was a welcome change from the steady diet of bacon that Riley had been complaining about for some time, and there was now a good supply of the dried meat to take the salt pork off the menu for a while.

“All a feller needs now is a good drink of whiskey,” he opined. “And since we'll be goin' to town to get some supplies, I'm set on havin' one.”

“I expect I'll join you,” Joel said. “It has been a while.”

Both men had little more than the money from their last payday in the army, and that was Confederate scrip, worthless beyond being used to start a fire. With rifles and extra horses, however, they were confident that they had plenty to trade for what they needed.

With the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the west of them, they had continued their trek north across the high plains until reaching the creek below the thriving mining town. An abandoned mining claim with part of an old sluice box still standing seemed like a good spot to make camp. From the look of it, the prior residents had spent some time there before giving up and moving on.

“Most likely found a little bit of dust to make 'em stay so long,” Riley speculated, “enough to buy grub, maybe. I'll bet for every miner that strikes it rich, there's a thousand workin' for grub money.” That triggered another thought he was curious about. “You reckon that brother of yours is gettin' anything outta that claim of his out in Idaho?”

“I've got no idea,” Joel replied. “Tell you the truth, I haven't thought much about it.”

He was truthful in his answer. If there was gold to be found, it was all the better, but the driving force behind his decision to go west was a strong hankering to see that part of the country. He would decide what he was going to do once he got there, whether it was raising horses and cattle or maybe even sheep. He didn't care, he just felt the mountains calling him, and he was determined to see them before he got sidetracked somewhere else.

•   •   •

Although there had been a considerable portion of the Denver City population that had been Confederate sympathizers, and militia units had been organized to fight on the side of the South, the war had gone in favor of the Union. The Confederate troops were now disbanded, but there was still no sign of uniting the territory under one flag. It was into this fragile state of divided loyalties that the two ex–Confederate soldiers rode into town early one Monday morning, leading horses loaded down with army carbines and dried deer meat. As they were passing the bank near the south end of the town, they saw the bank manager just unlocking the door.

Curious to know if the Confederate money the two of them carried might still be of any value in this part of the territory, Joel pulled Will to a stop in front of the door.

“Good mornin' to ya,” he called out.

The banker, upon turning to see who had greeted him, was startled to discover the two trail-weathered riders in the faded Confederate uniforms. His first thought was of the possibility that his bank was about to be robbed. Oblivious of the banker's fears, Joel asked his question.

“Me and my partner, here, are still carryin' our pay from the Confederate army. I was wonderin' if we could find out what it's worth if we exchange it for Union money.”

Relaxing at once, since it was now obvious the strangers were not planning to rob the bank, the manager answered.

“I'm afraid I have to tell you that your money is worthless. You see, Confederate money was printed and issued by the states—not like Union currency. So what it amounts to is there might be a small exchange rate in some states—no more than pennies on the dollar at that. Most states and territories don't give you anything for it. Colorado Territory is one of them.”

It was not really surprising news to Joel. He figured as much, but he thought it had been worth asking, just in case.

“We're needin' to pick up some supplies,” he said. “We've got stuff to trade. Maybe you could point us toward someplace that'll do some tradin'.”

“The man you want to see is Guthrie,” the banker replied. “He'll sell or barter.” He turned to point toward the north end of the street. “Right next to the saloon—there's a big sign over the door—Guthrie's General Store. He was here before the town, ran a trading post, dealing with the Indians mostly, so he's used to trading.”

“Much obliged,” Joel said, and nudged Will with his heels.

They continued up the street toward the general store, both men fairly amazed at the number of people they passed, men and women, going about the business one would expect in a busy town back east. It was not what Joel had expected of a mining town. There were several men lounging on the boardwalk before a saloon that proclaimed itself to be the Miner's Rest, and Riley turned to give Joel a grin as they rode past. Next door to the saloon, they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail. Riley licked his lips as if already able to taste that drink he was bent on having as soon as their business in the store was completed.

“Don't forget,” he felt compelled to remind Joel, “we need to have some cash money to boot.”

Joel chuckled. “I won't. Else you might trade one of the horses for a shot of whiskey,” he teased.

“Mornin', fellers,” Ed Guthrie greeted them when they walked in. A short, stocky man that struck Joel as the spitting image of Riley if he had had hair on his shiny bald head, he came out from behind the counter. “You fellers just hit town?” he asked, making no effort to hide his frank appraisal of the two Confederate soldiers. Not waiting for an answer for his question, he asked another. “What can I do for you?”

“We'll be needin' some supplies,” Joel answered, “some coffee, some sugar, flour, dried beans, some salt, and a few other things, soon as I can think of 'em.”

Riley, who had walked over to a counter on the other side of the store, piped up then. “Some pants and shirts, too,” he said. “These damn uniforms is about to fall to pieces.”

Guthrie nodded. “It'd be a pretty good idea, even if they weren't,” he said. “Folks around here are lookin' to forget about the Blue and the Gray. There's been too much trouble between the two sides, and we'd just as soon forget about the war and get on with life.” He walked over to Riley. “You fellers thinkin' about tryin' your luck pannin' for gold?”

“Nope,” Riley replied. “We're just passin' through on our way to Idaho country, so we need some stout clothes that ain't gonna turn to rags first time they get wet.”

“Well, I can fix you up with anything you need,” Guthrie said. “What are you usin' for money? Dust? Paper?” He paused a moment, then: “You know, I can't do no business with Confederate scrip.”

“Feller at the bank told us you'd barter,” Joel said, stepping in. “We've got trade goods that are worth a good bit of money.”

Guthrie scowled, apparently disappointed. “Skins?”

“Well, we've got a couple of deer hides if that's what you want,” Joel said. “But we're talkin' about things you can sell, like brand-new Sharps carbines, and boxes of ammunition to go with 'em, and two fine horses we'd let go at the right price.”

Guthrie's frown disappeared immediately. “Brand- new?”

“Brand-new,” Joel confirmed, “never been fired.”

“Maybe we could work out a trade,” Guthrie said, “dependin' on how much stuff you're lookin' to buy.” He cocked his head back and added, “Course I'll have to take a look at the guns before we even get to talkin' trade.”

“Sure,” Riley said. “I'll go get one.” He walked out to the packhorses while Joel looked over Guthrie's stock of woolen trousers. In a few minutes, Riley was back with one of the Sharps and handed it to Guthrie. “There you go. Like we said, ain't never been fired. Weapon like this would cost you about forty dollars or more.”

“Well, I suppose so,” Guthrie allowed as he looked the carbine over. “Course that'd be the price back east at the factory. There's a helluva lot of these army weapons showin' up now, so the value might not be worth the price of a new one.”

Joel glanced over at a couple of old shotguns leaning against the wall behind the counter. “Don't look like many have been showin' up here,” he said. “I don't see anything you've got to sell but those old shotguns. Seems to me that a shiny new Sharps carbine would be worth a lot more than the original price back east.”

“And I'll guarantee you, there's four deer hides out there on our horses that were shot from a helluva long ways farther than a shotgun could hit anything,” Riley said. He didn't feel it necessary to explain that the deer were shot with their Spencers. The principle was the same.

Guthrie couldn't help grinning. “All right,” he conceded. “Let me figure up everything you're buyin' and then we'll see if we can work a trade.”

The trading went on for the better part of an hour, but it was finally settled to both parties' satisfaction. Guthrie's price for the supplies they gathered on the counter came to a little more than forty dollars. Bargaining for some extra cash money to boot, Joel and Riley finally agreed to let Guthrie have one additional carbine and a box of cartridges to go with each. He stood outside with them while they loaded their purchases on the packhorses. When he got a glimpse of the extra weapons that remained, he began bargaining anew, but the most Joel and Riley would do was to let him buy two more for the equivalent of sixty dollars in gold dust. The trading finally done, Riley announced, “Now, since I've got a little money, I'm gonna have myself a little drink to wash all the lying outta my throat.”

“Well, it was a pleasure to do business with you boys,” Guthrie said, then hesitated before deciding to say more. “I might give you a little advice if you're fixin' to go into the Miner's Rest. Ansil Bowers, the feller that owns that saloon, is a strong supporter of the Union, and back before the war was over, folks that was loyal to the South didn't do their drinkin' in the Miner's Rest.”

“Well, it's all over now, and the Union folks oughta be satisfied. They came out on top,” Riley said. “Let bygones be bygones is what I say.”

Joel laughed. “You're so anxious to get in that saloon, you'd better go on. I'll be in in a minute after I finish tyin' these packs down.”

“You talked me into it, you silver-tongued devil,” Riley snorted joyfully. “I'll try not to drink it all up before you get there.”

Guthrie lingered a few moments longer after Riley disappeared through the saloon door, watching as Joel tightened the last knot on the packs. Joel sensed that the store owner wanted to say something more but was still making up his mind.

“You know,” Guthrie finally said, “you fellers seem like decent men, and you didn't ask my advice, but I think you might enjoy your whiskey better if you went on down to the Gold Nugget. Fred Bostic owns that saloon. He backed the Union, same as Ansil Bowers, but he thinks pretty much like you boys. The war's over, so let's all bury the hatchet. But Bowers lost his only son in a battle against Rebel troops near Springfield, Missouri. The boy was fightin' with a regiment of Kansas volunteers, and Ansil never got over it. You and your partner do what you want. I'm just tryin' to give you a little friendly advice.”

“I understand what you're sayin',” Joel said. “I 'preciate it. We're sure as hell not lookin' for any trouble.”

Guthrie stepped back up on the boardwalk, then turned to say one more thing. “It mighta been better if you had shucked those Confederate uniforms and put on your new clothes.”

“You're probably right. I'll go see if I can keep Riley from gettin' in trouble.”

•   •   •

Ansil Bowers glared at the stocky man in the rumpled gray uniform with sergeant stripes on the sleeves. He answered Riley's friendly greeting with a sour grunt, which Riley ignored before ordering a shot of whiskey. Showing his obvious disgust by his unfriendly attitude, Bowers put a glass on the bar and picked up the bottle, hesitating before pouring.

“What are you using for money? I don't take that Rebel money. It ain't nothin' but trash.”

Riley's hackles went up just a little, but remembering Guthrie's comment about the owner of the Miner's Rest, he was determined to avoid any unpleasantness. He pulled his money out and slid it toward Bowers.

“Good ol' federal dollars,” he said, and forced a smile.

Still undecided on whether or not he should refuse to offer service to a Rebel soldier, Bowers reluctantly poured the drink. Then he took the money and went to the end of the bar in an obvious move to put some space between himself and the unwelcome customer.

Seated at a table close to the end of the bar, two men played a casual game of two-handed poker. The exchange between Bowers and the stranger caught the attention of one of the cardplayers, Lige Tolbert, a sometimes miner, sometimes deputy sheriff, and full-time town bully. Engaged in none of those pastimes at the present, he saw an opportunity to relieve the boredom of the late morning. He had no particular loyalties to any cause, Blue or Gray included, but he knew the passion with which Bowers hated Confederate Rebels, so he decided to amuse himself as well as the few others in the saloon at that hour. With a grin for his card-playing partner, he stood up, pushed his chair back, and ambled over to the end of the bar across from Bowers.